


Phoenix

by athena_crikey



Series: Fear and Favour [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Episode, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, case-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 133,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2763026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night holds shadows, and men whose job it is to keep the public safe from them. Not many people believe they can be one in the same.</p><p>In June 1965, Endeavour Morse comes to Oxford at the end of his rope with a trunk of records, a talent for detective work, and a secret.</p><p>Now complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROVERBS 26:11

**Author's Note:**

> Alright - buckle in! I have been working VERY SLOWLY on this for quite a while, and although my progress is pitiful I am finally starting to post (also very slowly). The intention is to alternate between episode tie-ins and original chapters. I really hope not to go into this much detail with the other episode tie-ins; likely also not looking to do all 9, probably more like 6-7. 
> 
> That being said, chapters are looking about this long so if people have a huge preference for shorter chapters I can split them in in half. Let me know.
> 
> Some chapters may have unique warnings - if so I will post in the chapter notes.
> 
> Finally - shout out to Ward, a fabulous AU of this AU written by pallas_or_bust as a sequel to Effigy. They are not connected, but please go check that out if you haven't already.

  


The grey streets of Carshall Newtown are lined by concrete high-rises and new character-less storefronts. It’s easy to stay anonymous; the town is busy, full of verve and energy. Traffic is always thick on the streets in the city centre, pedestrians on the sidewalks rushing to their destinations weaving through the close lines of iron streetlamps. Morse rarely encounters the same faces despite keeping a relatively steady routine.

The city is a young one, having grown up in the shadow of Oxford and its ancient surroundings at a rapid pace to meet the need for a high-traffic, modern city with the ability to install the high-rises and major railway junctions Oxford never could. Its youth and modernity brings Carshall a booming population, a strong economy, and a low percentage of touched. 

Morse has heard that Carshall is one of the most desired transfers in the county within the Force, and objectively he can see how it would be. But youth and modernity hold no attraction for him; a job was simply a job.

This morning he carries the letter in his coat pocket, stiff in its unaddressed envelope. He stops for a moment on the concrete steps outside Carshall Newtown’s bunker-style police station, looking up at its square face. Then he sighs and pushes on in to make his way through the station, ungreeted by most, grinned at by a few; he ignores them.

The CID is on the fourth floor, the constables’ desks jammed in the general scrum near the door and the DIs’ offices down a corridor at the back. He makes to turn down the corridor as he arrives, but spots DI Wittern waiting for him by his desk. The man has a scarecrow-like appearance: tall and thin, with thick blond hair turning to grey cut on the long side and a face criss-crossed by deep wrinkles that give him the appearance of a man twenty years his senior.

“A request’s come through from Oxford for assistance with a missing person’s case and general duties. Several PCs have been assigned; in addition DCS Halliday has also approved your and McLeash’s temporary assignment. Go home and pack your bags; the bus leaves at 11 from the motor pool.” He says it in the same tone that marks nearly all his professional interactions: complete disinterest. 

Morse stares, shocked. “I’m sorry – what?”

“You’re being drafted temporarily to Oxford,” repeats Wittern, chewing at his tobacco. “Better get moving.” He moves off, turning the corner towards his office. For a minute Morse stands, frozen, at his desk. Then he follows, shock melting into stubbornness. 

“Sir, I need to speak to you. About Oxford, I can’t –”

Wittern turns, returning to crowd Morse out of the office, looking down at him. “Not now. Don’t be obstinate, Morse. This is DCS Halliday’s order, not mine, and it’s at Oxford’s request – DI Thursday. Asked for you specific, I hear, so for once, don’t go making waves.” He folds his arms over his chest, staring Morse in the eye with an unreadable expression – flat, dark, barren. 

“You might take some advice from me, constable, on this one occasion. There’s someone in Oxford as wants you. You’ve a head on your shoulders; spend a few minutes thinking about what that could mean for you. Now go pack your things.” Wittern stares him out of his office, and shuts the door.

\----------------------------------------

Morse brings the paper for the crossword with him on the bus; he loans the front pages to McLeash to make up for the – according to McLeash – several drinks he’s skipped out on. He regrets it almost immediately. 

“Mary Tremlett, age 15, left home on Saturday at approximately 4 o’clock in the afternoon for a trip to the cinema. Last seen wearing an orange top, green ¾ length trousers in a fashionable capris pants style, she has not been seen since. Anyone with information pertaining to her disappearance should contact Detective Inspector Fred Thursday at Cowley Police Station, Oxford. It is believed extra police officers from Carshall Newton are being drafted in to assist in the search. Well that’s us, that is.” McLeash has no sense of physical boundaries, and is perfectly happy to knock his hands and wrists against Morse’s, but even if he weren’t he would be easy enough to read: a roiling mess of eagerness, excitement, and expectation. It slips in under the skin like oil, slick and viscous, and is irritatingly difficult to shake off again. 

Morse turns his attention outside the window, feeling his teeth beginning to ache from his clenched jaw. He’s never dealt well with blind exuberance, and today is not a day to test himself with it. 

Outside, the world is bright and beautiful, spring preparing to give way to summer. The trees are lush and verdant, sun-dappled leaves waving gently in the breeze. Thick, colourful flower boxes line the second storeys of buildings while in beds and even along the roadside well-tended shrubs and annuals make a good showing; both are prudently speckled with less dramatic wolfsbane and angelica. 

If he keeps his eyes on the landscape, it’s easier to keep from noticing the signs counting down the miles to Oxford.

“Here, what’s this I heard about you trying to get yourself taken off the inquiry? Morse?” 

Morse glances at him, giving a minute shrug. “Didn’t care for it,” he mutters, looking back out the window. 

“This is the kind of case as gets a bloke noticed. You’ve got to buck up.” McLeash leans in, folding the paper with a protracted rustle. “The past can’t bite you, right?”

Morse swivels, eyes wide. McLeash has never mentioned Oxford – one of the few who hasn’t. He gives a little apologetic smile now. “Sorry. But everyone knows, Morse,” he says softly, so that only Morse can hear. 

Everyone knows you were kidnapped by a middle-aged Oxford don; everyone knows you were used as a sacrifice in a blood rite; everyone knows you spent 18 months effectively in a coma after your own colleagues gave up looking for you; everyone knows the Oxford City Police found you entirely by luck, and closed the case in two days despite the blood mage trying to complete the rite a second time – with you as a sacrifice again. So what did you do to tickle his fancy, eh Morse? Give him the glad eye? Take some evening lectures? Or maybe you go in for the occult?

Morse twitches his lips into the semblance of a smile, forcing himself to pull it past a snarl. “I know what they think.” He hadn’t, five months ago. But guilt, shame and fear can produce a surprisingly ugly veil of lies if that’s what it takes to hide self-introspection. With Wittern’s blind eye acting as tacit approval, there was no chance of putting an end to it. 

And now it seems Wittern wants rid of him as well. Morse runs his fingertips over the envelope in his pocket. It doesn’t matter. He was on his way out anyway. 

\--------------------------------------------

The bus trundles to a stop a moment after passing the tall iron gates that surround Cowley Station’s motor pool, doubtless sunk almost as deep below the ground as above it. 

Cowley Station is old – easily two hundred years since its foundations were laid, when the night held if anything more terror than it does today. The witch hunts had only just ceased, leaving millions dead but very few of any real danger, ironically endangering society more than protecting it. With illness and wars rampant in Europe, blood-touched rose in fetid swarms, bringing death to any home careless enough not to bar it threshold to them. And with so much of the countryside still covered in forests and untamed wilderness nameless shadows raised their broods unhindered, waiting for full moons to raid nearby villages or cottages. 

But even then Oxford had been ancient, and had known how to protect itself. The building which would eventually become Cowley Station does not have the elegance or grandeur of many of the colleges, but its squat square form conceals a fortress. Stone walls two feet thick, foundations sunk into the bedrock below and aligned with the natural currents of magic running deep in the earth, ancient seals carved into cornerstones, and of course the usual host of charms and talismans gathered over the intervening years. 

DS Lott is waiting for them in the yard with a clipboard, already shouting men towards their assignments as they pour out of the bus. His critical gaze sweeps over Morse as he ushers the officers on attachment into the building with the usual sergeant’s rough cajolery – “Move along there, fingers out of arses.” He sends the rest of the men off to their assignments as they wend their way through the station, finally leaving just Morse and McLeash standing in the hallway. 

Morse’s arms are beginning to ache, suitcase in one hand and record player in the other, but he doesn’t make a move to put them down. Beside him McLeash does the same, standing stiff and straight, radiating eagerness. Lott gives them a long look over the top of his clipboard, like a man inspecting meat at a butcher’s and predicting short weight. 

“Suppose you’re feeling very pleased with yourselves. Dreaming of cracking a great big juicy murder case, getting your name in the papers?” goads Lott.

“Yes, sir,” barks McLeash, grinning as he walks right into it; Morse can’t restrain the cringe.

“Well don’t. There’s only two detectives in this nick – me, and the guv’nor. That’s Inspector Thursday to you, or Sir.” He nods towards an open door on the left. McLeash goes in first, and Lott holds out his clipboard to block the way before Morse can follow.

“DC Morse. We meet again. I’m sure you’ll enjoy this visit to Oxford much more than your last. Little word of advice. You might feel like you earned something when you were here before – you can get that idea out of your head right now. You’re here as part of the draft from Carshall, and what happened six months ago isn’t worth a brass farthing. So don’t expect any favours; you damn well won’t be getting them.”

Morse draws back, shocked, and Lott takes the opportunity to precede him into the tiny office. Morse reins in his surprise a moment later and follows, putting his cases down beside the closer of the two desks. “I thought this was a missing persons case? You said murder,” he points out, stepping out of Lott’s way. 

Lott looks him up and down again, eyebrows arched skeptically, apparently no more impressed a second time. “Oh, it’s murder alright. Young girls these days think fur or fangs is just a bit of harmless fun. Turned the wrong eye out looking for some adventure. We’ve just not found the body yet.”

\-----------------------------------------------

It’s late afternoon by the time Morse finally has a chance to stop by the lodging house to drop off his effects, following the landlady up into the faded room smelling of cigar smoke and mothballs. He doesn’t hear much of what she says; it’s been a long day of rubbing up against disgruntled commuters and vulturous shop-keepers whilst handing out flyers, and the eager anticipation of some solitude drowns out most of her words. He nods politely until she leaves, and shuts the door behind her.

The house is Georgian – not old enough to have taken on much personality of its own, with frequent guests moving through. The furniture and decorations are equally bland, for which Morse is grateful. Above the chipping window frames and in the corners of the room empty nails protrude; the landlady will certainly have charms and seals for those too unprepared or lackadaisical not to bring their own, but Morse isn’t among their number.

Like nearly all of his belongings, the seals and talismans are new, procured from London in early February in a rainstorm. Above the window over his bed he hangs the dreamcatcher, fashioned from yew, raven feathers, iron and copper beads, catgut and serpent teeth to keep out nightwalkers and wraiths – blood-touched who steal into dreams to trap vulnerable souls. Over the other window and in the corners of the room he places the more standard items – talismans of cedar painted with rooster blood, bells on hemp woven around shed snakeskin, sachets of mead wort and rosebay willowherb, and of course plain iron – to deny physical entry to blood-touched. 

With the exception of the dreamcatcher, the charms are cheap and of poor quality. In Carshall, the dormitory was well protected, and they seemed an unnecessary expense at a time when he had nothing but expenses. And, in buying them, there was no way to avoid remembering the seals he was replacing – picked out six years before in Oxford, when he had had something to protect. He’d had no desire to linger over the selection. 

He had been so sure the revenants that would haunt him would be those of Lescault and the crypt, of fire and death, that he had almost forgotten the old days. But here and now in the Oxford summer, with the sun on his back and the cobbles under his feet, it’s his heart that betrays him. He brings the dusty box labelled Susan down from the top shelf of his memory and carefully unwraps all the brittle emotions within – longing, grief, passion, regret, love, loss. It’s not a healthy pain, wallowing in emotional shrapnel, but it’s a familiar one. 

After several minutes, Morse pulls himself together enough to set the turntable on the desk and selects the one record he knows will calm him. 

For forty-five minutes, he lies on the bed with his eyes closed and lets his stress and heartache fade away as Rosalind Calloway performs her most famous arias. By the time the needle reaches the end of the record, he feels as much himself as ever.

\-------------------------------------

Cowley CID is mostly empty by six-thirty, and dead by seven. It’s no trouble at all for Morse to let himself into the main office, and then into the filing cabinets to take a look at Mary Tremlett’s file. He doesn’t mind working late; he’s more productive in the quiet, and the station is good company. Hundreds of years of residents, guests and staff have left their mark on it, the low-key hum of humanity that rubs off on all buildings given enough time. Carshall, all concrete and grey paint, is too new to have developed its own personality; he never feels more than a visitor there. Here, it would be easy to feel at home.

“There’s no overtime.”

Morse looks up, momentarily blinded by the desk lamp. He turns it downwards, blinking away the stars, and sees Inspector Thursday standing in the doorway, smiling tiredly. 

It’s been five months since he saw the Detective Inspector. That had been here, too, in Cowley Station, wishing him luck in his return to Carshall – a position Morse is certain Thursday pulled strings to arrange to have reopened for him. Before that, during the course of the investigation, he single-handedly shut down the rumour mill inside Cowley regarding Morse, something Morse’s own DI either couldn’t or wouldn’t do. 

And he did it all despite being the only copper who knows that Morse is sun-touched.

“How’re you keeping, Morse?” He comes over to shake hands – warmth, pleasure, a prickle of amusement, but underlying it a sense of bleakness. 

Morse gives a quick but sincere smile in return, more in acknowledgement of Thursday’s presence than his words. “Fine thank you, sir. I thought I should take a look at the Tremlett case files.” He indicates the papers and photos spread across the desk. 

Thursday raises an inquiring eyebrow. “So?”

Morse licks his lips, weaving his thoughts together hastily. “Mary Tremlett, age 15. Last seen by her parents Saturday, 4 o’clock when she left, supposedly to go to the pictures with another girl, Valerie…” He glances at the notes to fill in the detail.

“Quillen,” supplies Thursday. Morse nods.

“Who denies any such arrangement. No boyfriend, no troubles at home, so it’s unlikely she’s a runaway. And that’s it. Not much to go on.”

“There rarely is, this type of case, but we keep looking.” He says it with a kind of tired resignation. This close, Morse can see the fatigue in his face, in the lines of his shoulders and his spine. Missing children from happy homes don’t signify good endings. 

“There is one thing, sir,” offers Morse. He taps the list of Mary’s things. “Going through this list of her belongings at home. She’s a copy of the Oxford Book of English Verse by her bed together with A Shropshire Lad and a Betjeman Collected.”

Thursday stares at him uncomprehendingly. “Young girls like poetry.”

“Young girls like Mary Tremlett?”

“Too highbrow for a girl whose father works on the GMC assembly line? That’s your point?”

Morse stands, coming around the desk to stand beside Thursday in the light. “No, sir. My point is that they’re hardbacks. Beyond the pocket of a schoolgirl, I’d have thought.”

Thursday sighs. “And you want to look into it, is that it? There’s official lines of inquiry, Morse. Poetry books isn’t one of them.” 

“I’m aware, sir. But you’ve used unofficial ones in the past as well,” says Morse, standing firm.

Thursday gives him a long look, the only sound in the room the quiet tick of the clock slicing away the seconds. Finally, he shrugs. “Alright. If you can fit it into your other duties without disruption.” 

“Thank you, sir.”

Thursday nods and turns for the door. He glances back, showing the shadow of a smile. “Don’t you stay here all night – I understand the sofa’s not very comfortable.”

Morse smiles. “No, sir.”

\-------------------------------------

There’s definitely something off about the poetry books. According to Mary’s parents and friends she has no boyfriend, but the books are laced with ardour, excitement and desire – not the typical emotions elicited by those works, in Morse’s experience. Additionally, crossword cuttings have been left in them, partially filled out – these without emotional stamps, Mary’s connection with them too short. Morse doesn’t have time to follow up on them, however, as just as he gets into the office Lott whips in with a chitty for a suicide in Thrupp and shoves him out to make his own way there. 

The pathologist is already there with his equipment when Morse arrives, kneeling by the body. Morse feels himself tensing up as he approaches, the muscles in his back and torso tightening involuntarily, forcing him to walk stiffly and breathe shallowly. 

The idea that corpses project emotions is ridiculous, and he knows it to be. Still, he feels his skin crawl when he approaches them, as though they might somehow overcome the barrier of space between them and him to drown him with the agonies of their last minutes. 

The reported suicide is lying at the bottom of a shallow slope, beside the river. Morse stands at the top of the slope and looks down. The body has already been surrounded by the usual precautions: iron bars laid in a rectangle around it with a brass incense burner at each corner to mask the smell of the corpse, a long thin silver chain circling the bars on the inside, the small wooden crucifix resting on the earth above the head of the body indicating it has already received the high-iron injections necessary to prevent a revenant from forming. 

The pathologist beside the corpse is busy examining the wound, his back to Morse. Morse clears his throat. “Morning.”

The doctor looks up. He’s a smallish, portly man in horn-rimmed glasses and a tweed coat. The look he gives Morse is peevish. “Not for this poor sod. You are whom?”

“Morse. Detective Constable. On attachment from Newtown. You’re the pathologist, I presume.”

“Max DeBryn. Morse? I recall the name – a near guest of mine, a few months back. Nice of you to spare me the trouble.” He holds out his hand, still in a bloody glove. Morse glances at it, and he removes the stained cotton with a casual shrug. Mildly curious, otherwise the general bland baseline of a man engaged in technical work.

“I aim to please,” says Morse, dispassionately. And then, changing the subject immediately, “Can you tell me anything about this? Is it suicide?”

DeBryn turns back to the body, leaning down to indicate points of interest. “Looks to be. Single entry on the right temple, starburst entry wound, scorching pattern suggests the weapon was discharged at point blank range – as you can see.” 

Morse swallows, feeling his skin beginning to chill again, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. “I’ll take your word for it.”

DeBryn gives him an unimpressed look. “Squeamish? Won’t make much of a detective if you’re not prepared to look Death in the eye.”

“Twice was quite enough,” replies Morse, tartly. “Find me when you’re done.

\------------------------------------------

He cadges a ride off of DeBryn, also obtaining the name of the dead man and the caliber of the gun, while narrowly escaping appearing at the autopsy. Miles Percival lives in a flat in Jericho, with, as it turns out, an Australian roommate – Brian Lomax. Morse interviews him as he goes through Percival’s room, sifting through his books, papers, photographs, clothes. 

“You’d known him long?”

Lomax stays in the corner, arms crossed over his chest, unusually querulous and uncertain for such a large man. “Two years – we sang together in the choir for a bit?”

Morse glances up. “How did he seem? Anything worrying him?”

“No.” Lomax says it softly, almost inaudibly. 

“What about recently? Anything out of the ordinary? Money problems? College? Girl problems?” 

Lomax shrugs stiffly, almost edging himself out of the doorway. “Nothing he told me about.”

Either Lomax is lying, or he and his roommate must have gone months without speaking. Miles Percival’s belongings are soaked with the bitter fall-out of heartbreak: desperation, love, betrayal, anger, loss. 

\-----------------------------------------------

He works out the secret of the crosswords that night, explaining it to Thursday the next morning on the drive in, and then again to DCS Crisp when they arrive at the station. He shows them the filled-in squares: Bagley Wood.

It’s one of the few relatively safe green spaces in the county in both night and day, protected by the university for the public good. Students, Morse remembers from his own days, are recommended to visit it or Marley Wood, and to avoid other wooded areas. The Wychwood more than all others is forbidden, its dense dark canopy sheltering – according to local rumour – the stuff of nightmares: feral werewolves, revenants, ghasts, shadow-thieves, blind souls, dire weavers and, living in the heart of the Wood, a necromancer. Somehow more famous than all the other horrors of that place, he was a legend even when Morse was up: a devil who had once been a man, now living to grant wishes at terrible prices to those distraught enough to seek him out. 

Morse considers at least half of these rumours apocryphal, including the necromancer. But he’s never been within 10 miles of the Wychwood all the same.

Only moments after he has explained his crossword theory to Crisp (and been torn into by Lott), the news comes that Mary Tremlett has been found; her body lying, as predicted, in Bagley Wood.

This time, there’s no avoiding the autopsy.

\-----------------------------------------------

After prisons and station house cell blocks, hospitals are the worst heat sinks of negative emotions. All the fear and anger and grief seeps into their walls and builds up, thicker and harder and sharper over the years. Hospitals undergoing regular purification and cleansing rituals to ward off revenants, the spirits of those who die in their walls, but there’s no way to wash away the emotion. 

The morgue, fortunately, sees almost no visitors and has no latent emotions imbued in its pristine tiles. Morse stands at the end of the corridor with Mary Tremlett’s older sister and watches her father identify the body through the window, Inspector Thursday by his side. His face as he returns is nearly impassive, but the tiny cracks are enough to break Mrs Veelie. She shatters all at once, overtaken by sobs that wrack her like blows, and curls inwards to the floor. Morse tries to hold her, crouching around her awkwardly, careful not to touch her skin. 

Her father helps her away when she’s steady enough to stand, muffling her sobs against her wrist. He watches them go, chafing his hands absently until he notices himself doing it and forces himself to stop. 

“Alright to go in?” asks Thursday. Morse turns to find Thursday watching him, eyes sympathetic. He nods. 

The autopsy room is large and tiled in white with a metal gurney in the centre holding Mary Tremlett’s body, currently covered in a sheet. Morse feels his skin beginning to crawl and stops, then keeps walking. There’s no one else here at the moment, a second door leading to what looks like an office is open on the far side of the room. 

“Is there anything you can tell me?” asks Thursday, with a nod at her. Morse glances at him, then at the gurney. 

“You mean read her?” he asks softly, voice too quiet to carry apprehension. 

Thursday nods. “Now’s the time.”

Morse swallows and takes another step forward, glancing at the office door – still no sign of DeBryn. His skin feels cold and clammy, hairs all risen and standing as though charged by static, rubbing against his clothes with each breath he takes and setting his nerves on end. He reaches out slowly, lifts the sheet to reveal a white arm. 

Morse closes his eyes and lowers his hand. 

_TERROR / confusion / FEAR / disbelief / RAGE / hatred / DESPERATION / guilt / DREAD_

Mary Tremlett’s emotions crash down on him in a furious torrent, vivid and violent. Morse drops his hand and the fury of it fades, but as it goes the colour bleeds away from the world, while in the background a strange white noise starts roaring. Morse turns to see what’s making it, but everything goes black before he finds out. 

\------------------------------------------

“Morse? Morse?”

Morse blinks into consciousness to find Thursday leaning over him, staring down anxiously. In the doorway behind him, Dr DeBryn is standing in a white coat and gloves. 

Morse rolls his head down to find he’s lying on a sofa in a small but tidy office that smells faintly of drain cleaner. He has a headache and feels cold and shaky, muscles overworked and rubbery. He feels somehow that he’s not getting enough air, is dizzy and a bit breathless. He tries, surreptitiously, to take deeper breaths. 

“Do you know who I am?” asks Thursday, watching him closely. 

“Yes,” says Morse, confused by the apparent absurdity of the question. And then, when Thursday raises his eyebrows pointedly, “Inspector Thursday. I’m fine,” he adds, memory trickling back in and helping him fill in some of the pieces. “I just… felt faint,” he says obliquely. He still does; it’s difficult to hold more than a few thoughts, and he’s sure he can’t stand. 

In the doorway, DeBryn rolls his eyes. “If anyone wants me, I’ll be conducting the autopsy. Inspector, feel free to join me when you’re able. Morse, you’re excused.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Thursday watches him go, then turns back to Morse. “You’re not going to skid out?” he asks, quietly.

Morse shakes his head. He’s a bit ragged at the edges but entirely himself, in control of his emotions; Mary Tremlett’s are firmly relegated to their own space in his memory, albeit a grim one. “No sir. It was just… horrible.” 

“Alright. We’ll talk about it after the autopsy. Wait here. It shouldn’t take too long.”

Morse nods and closes his eyes as Thursday leaves. From the outer room there’s the quiet sound of voices; he can’t make out the words, but their tones are soothing. He curls up onto his side, and without noticing drifts into sleep. 

\---------------------------------

“Morse?” 

Morse is woken this time by a light hand on his shoulder; Inspector Thursday is leaning over him, expression gentle. “Let’s go.”

They go to a pub near the hospital; it’s a warm day, and they sit outside. Morse still feels a bit weak, and has a dull headache behind one eye, but feels otherwise refreshed by the short nap. He hides his eyes from the sun but lets it fall on his back, enjoying the warmth while he waits at a picnic table for Thursday to fetch them both drinks. 

To Morse’s surprise the inspector returns with two pints full to the brim, froth spilling gently over the edges. He glances up, frowning slightly – but after all it has been six months; why should Thursday remember anything about him? “Actually, sir, I don’t drink.”

Thursday nods, sitting down. “I know; very commendable. Now get that down you. You look like you could use it.” 

Morse takes the pint in considering hands – cold, heavy – and takes a sip. It’s richer than he imagined it would be, and with his aching head the cold is welcome. Thursday nods approvingly.

“Now perhaps you’d like to tell me what happened. You’ve done this before.”

“No, but… Before – in the crypt, the other sacrifices didn’t know they were going to die, sir. They were afraid, but they didn’t _know_ , and they weren’t conscious when they died. Mary Tremlett was. I didn’t realise the difference would be so huge, but… her emotions were so violent, and so horrible. They took me off guard.” He rubs at the bridge of his nose. “I’m –”

“If you’re going to apologize, don’t. I oughtn’t to have assumed it would be the same.” Thursday pauses, then settles into a quieter, more sombre tone.

“It stays with you, your first. North Africa was mine. Longstop Hill. Lad by the name of Mills. Gunner Mills. Not a mark on him. I thought he was asleep, till I turned him over.” Thursday makes a face of disgust. “Mortar.” 

Morse takes another drink, and discovers he’s nearly drained the glass. Thursday seems if anything pleased, so he finishes it. 

“Did you get anything useful?” asks Thursday, when the glass is empty. 

“I’m not sure. A lot of fear and anger – probably normal, I should think. The only thing that might have been odd was guilt.”

Thursday cants his head equivocatingly. “Might have been about something else. Forgot to do something important, say.”

Morse nods once. “Could be. I don’t know. And it wasn’t very strong. What did I miss in the autopsy?”

Thursday fills him in.

\------------------------------------------

Morse is still trying to capture in his memory the image or Rosalind Calloway – now Stromming – in his memory when he returns to the station: the sun on her hair, the softness of her lips, the beauty of her voice. He doesn’t even notice Inspector Thursday appearing in front of him in the CID office.

“You look pleased. Find something?”

Morse looks up to see Thursday watching him.

“Mrs Stromming is Rosalind Calloway, sir.” It seems unbelievable, surreal, even as he says it. That she should be here, in Oxford. That he met her, took tea with her in a garden of June flowers and discussed music. 

“Should that mean something to me?” Thursday asks it politely, like a man with too much on his plate – doubtless the case.

“She’s – she used to be an opera singer, sir, of considerable talent.” His own much more personal appreciation for her, he omits.

Thursday nods slowly, and then understanding dawns. “Your records. Opera?”

“Yes, sir. Some of them,” answers Morse, surprised he remembered.

“Is she a suspect?”

God forbid. “No, sir. Just the wife of someone I was questioning about the suicide by the river.”

“Well, perhaps she’ll give a performance in Oxford.”

Morse smiles sadly, rubbing at the cuff of his sleeve. “Tickets are sold out.”

\---------------------------------------------------

The interview with Mrs Stromming inadvertently sets in motion the wheels whose turning results in Dr Stromming being unmasked as Oz, the man setting illicit rendezvous with Mary Tremlett through the Thursday crosswords. Just as Morse and Thursday are briefing Crisp on Stromming’s strength as a suspect, Lott brings in a veterinarian who swears to have seen Mary alive at 6am Sunday morning, blowing Stromming out of the water as a suspect.

Morse stands by the evidence table with Crisp, Thursday and Lott, hot under his collar and full of nervous energy. Stromming feels so right, and it all fits – the timing, the motive, his preying on Mary, his demeanor. The veterinarian feels like a pointless hurdle, almost like spite – like Lott throwing something in his way to make him trip. The sergeant’s goading him now, getting in a neat back-handed insult as he puts in his suggestion. 

“I checked on that suicide that Morse is supposed to be dealing with – Miles Percival.”

“Who?” asks Thursday.

“Mary Tremlett’s ex-boyfriend,” puts in Morse, quietly.

Thursday turns to look at him, expression sharp. “Don’t you think that’s something you should have mentioned?”

Morse shakes his head. “I ruled it out. Miles Percival was still in love with her, sir. There’s no way he could harm Mary Tremlett.” He looks straight at Thursday, willing him to understand what he’s telling him: _I know, believe me._

“Unless it slipped your notice, Miles Percival blew his brains out,” sneers Lott.

Morse rounds on him, snapping back. “Yeah, of course he did. It was more than he could stand.”

Lott takes it without turning a hair, returning it in kind. “Except that he done for himself before we found her body. So how could he have known?”

“Unless he killed her,” breaks in Thursday, quietly. Morse turns to look at him slowly, can see that he’s losing this argument. “I think we’ll have another look at this, sir,” he says to Crisp, who nods and disappears. Thursday glances at Morse and then heads into his office. Morse follows, shutting the door behind him and speaking before the blinds have stopped rattling.

“Sir, I’m telling you, Miles Percival was heartbroken – but he was also still in love with Mary Tremlett – deeply. He couldn’t have done this.”

“Ah,” says Thursday, taking a seat. “I believe you on the first point, Morse. That’s your specialty, and if you say it, fine. But deducing behaviour from emotion’s another kettle of fish, especially emotion read second-hand off someone’s belongings. People act differently on the same feelings. Heartbreak makes some people morose, and others violent – we don’t know which Percival was.”

“You seem to know a lot about this, sir,” says Morse, slowly. In Carshall, his readings only got him as far as he could manufacture some kind of evidentiary chain to support them. Having a DI who knows he can read is an amazing boon, but he hadn’t entirely figured on having one who actually understood it. 

“Told you I worked with an empath in London, didn’t I? He was always on about emotion and behaviour, and emotion and thought, for that matter. Oh, and … what was it… the transient nature of emotion – which the lads always thought had to do with vagrants.”

Morse nods. “In people, there’s only what’s being experienced at the moment – or in corpses, at the moment before death. No ambient picture.”

“Yes, the lads were always on him to play psychologist – tell us what kind of person someone was. Drove him up the wall.” Thursday smiles. 

“What happened to him?” asks Morse, curious. 

Thursday shakes his head. “I don’t know. He was still working when I left and came to Oxford. I assume he retired. He was certainly past due, but…” his eyes slip out of focus, looking into the distance.

“Sir?”

“Nothing. That’s enough for today. We’ll pick up again tomorrow morning. Go home.” 

Morse slips out of Thursday’s office and silently exits the CID, descending the back stairs with his hands in his pockets. He comes across Avery and Doyle in the lower hallway, having a smoke. “Hear you’re trying to bring in another Oxford don. Feeling lonely?” asks Avery, as he passes. Morse gives him a disgusted look and walks on; their laughter follows him down the corridor.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Later that night, when his affront and indignation have died away, Morse comes to realise that he must have been wrong about Stromming. And that, worse still, in his mistake, he hurt one of the few people in this world he values above all others. That’s a wrong he cannot forgive himself for, and as he’s only been waiting for the ideal opportunity anyway, he steals into Crisp’s office to leave his letter of resignation.

What he finds there leads them down another rabbit hole of under-age prostitution and blackmail, but at the end of it there’s no light, and with Crisp bawling him out for his actions, Morse takes the opportunity to do what he had intended all along, throws down his letter, and leaves. 

Lott’s waiting for him in the hallway, smirking around the damp end of a cigarette. “Flunked out again, have you? College, Carshall. That’s the problem with you posh-ohs – no staying power. First sign of trouble and it’s back to mummy, tail between. And your lads from Carshall have some stories to tell about your troubles.” Lott gives a wet, rolling laugh, full of insinuation. Morse turns his back and keeps walking. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

Morse comes back to Cowley Station for Thursday. The inspector has done him more favours than he can repay without expecting anything of him, and that’s not a generosity he can forget. More than that, though, he’s the only straight man in a station of crooks, and if he’s asking for help, Morse can’t turn his back.

He goes round to the shops, as he had told McLeash to do, looking for whoever sold the green and white dress. The dress is the alibi, of course, the way Mary Tremlett was alive at 6am on Sunday, when she was actually dead – had been killed the night before. All he needs to do is find out who bought the dresses. 

And he does. The beautiful woman with the diamond earrings. 

Not Dr Stromming, or Miles Percival, or Teddy Samuels. 

Morse leaves the shop feeling like his bones are made out of lead, and goes to tell Thursday he knows who killed Mary Tremlett and Miles Percival.

\-----------------------------------------------

“It’s obvious that she means more to you than just your appreciation for her voice, Morse,” says Thursday as they step into the Jag, considerate but professional. “If this is personal, you can sit out the arrest. Probably should.” 

Morse is already sitting down, which is just as well because in his current state the words would probably have cut his legs out from under him. He gives a dry half-laugh, passing his hand over his eyes while keeping his face turned away from Thursday. “In a way, you could say that, sir. I met Rosalind Stromming for the first time this week – before that, she didn’t know I existed. But nevertheless, when I was sixteen, she saved my life.”

Thursday, pulling out of the car park, pauses while waiting for a gap in traffic to look at him. Morse sees the movement more than the expression and tilts his head in an asymmetrical shrug. He lets his breath out slowly, propping his elbow on the doorframe and wiping at a speck on the glass with his knuckle. “Do you know about touchstones, sir?” he asks, without looking back. 

“Only that empaths need them to release the emotions they pick up from their readings.”

“Right. They can be anything – an object, a person, a sound. Something that makes you feel relaxed and safe. Every empath needs them – without them the emotions from readings build up. At first it just makes you feel anxious or overwhelmed, but as time goes on and more and more build up, it leads progressively to irrational behaviour, paranoia, violence, and madness.” Morse pauses, fingers stilling. Beside him, Thursday is silent, listening. 

“Most empaths manifest in their early to mid-teens. No one knows why; some people think it might be because young children wouldn’t be able to cope with the strain, but there’s no way to prove that theory. In my case, my mother died when I was twelve. Two years later…” He shrugs. 

“My dad didn’t know much about empaths, and he was mostly trying to forget my mother so anything that reminded him of her was … difficult. My step-mother hadn’t been keen on taking in another woman’s child in the first place – suddenly finding out she was raising an empath didn't endear me to her. She doesn’t much care for sun-touched, and she was terrified people would find out and assume the same of my half-sister. They still run wild hunts up in the North, sir, not to mention the beatings and vandalism. The long of the short of it was, without a touchstone, I barely made it to sixteen. And then… I just couldn’t go any further.”

“So what happened?” asks Thursday, softly. 

Morse looks over at him for the first time, smiling a thin, cutting smile. “I heard Rosalind Calloway on the radio. And I knew for the first time that there was beauty in the world, something to value – something to return to. A place to centre myself, and let everything else drain away.”

“You can sit this out,” offers Thursday again as they pull over in front of the New Theatre.

Morse shakes his head and reaches for the door handle.

“No. I can’t.”

\-------------------------------------------------

Two hours later, Rosalind Stromming hangs herself in her cell. Morse is just outside with Thursday, fighting the dual headache of the cell block’s ambient atmosphere of fear and anger and his own horror at her guilt, when they hear the duty sergeant drop a tray.

The sheet is thick, and even with most men carrying silver-edged knives it takes them almost a minute to get her down, Morse sweating and shouting over his shoulder for an ambulance. By the time they free her he’s the only one who tries to revive her, performing chest compressions and rescue breathing. He knows he must be reading her, knows he must be filtering in her emotions, but he’s so frantic he can’t seem to feel anything other than panic. 

She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, and after a few minutes Thursday puts a hand on his shoulder. Morse drops his head to rest beside hers, cheek to cheek, so that his tears might almost be hers. 

His desperate frenzy fades as his breathing slows, the coldness of inactivity after a sudden exertion falling over him. His mind clears, and with it his heart. 

Rosalind Stromming is – was – seething with a twisted, brittle, _desperate_ love. It is the sole notable emotion burning in her, and it is immense and intense. Too much so, in fact – like glass under pressure it is beginning to crack, fissures knifing through her with the fragile sharpness of glass. Her love has the feeling of something just about to splinter. No one emotion can hold such supremacy – not for as long as Mrs Stromming has lived on hers. 

He can feel her love cutting into him, tearing away at him piece by piece as it did her, twisting him tighter and tighter like a spring being compressed, until – 

_Kindness. Compassion. Concern. Sympathy._ Morse feels Thursday’s warm hand at his neck and lets out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He looks up to see the inspector watching him with careful, kind eyes. 

“Come on, Morse. Come with me.” Thursday takes his arm and helps him up, steering him gently when he stumbles. 

They leave the cellblock, past a crowd of coppers who mostly disperse when Thursday shouts at them, heading up to his office. By the time they make it up the stairs Morse is navigating safely on his own, although Thursday makes him go up first. 

Inside Thursday’s office, Morse hears the inspector close the door behind them; he’s already slumping into one of the interview chairs, dropping his head into his hand. 

“I’ll run you home when you’re ready,” says Thursday quietly from behind him. 

Morse glances around, fingers tangled in his hair. “You were right, sir,” he says, finding Thursday leaning against the wall beside him. 

“What about?”

“Rosalind Stromming was driven by love – it was a hungry, brittle, cracked kind of love, but it was still love. Not hatred, or bitterness, or jealousy. Reading her, I would never have predicted…” he shakes his head, unable to finish, throat thick and choking. Morse looks away, wiping his hand over his mouth. He can still feel the press of her lips, the harsh unrelenting desperation of her love. 

“It’s alright to ask for help, lad. You don’t have to go it alone.” Thursday’s voice cuts through the memory, and a moment later his hand falls to rest on the back of Morse’s neck near his shoulder. 

It’s been a long time since anyone freely and intentionally offered him emotional support. Years, in fact. His life is built around music – it will always be his sanctuary, ever-faithful, ever-sure. But while it brings him the peace to release the emotions that aren’t his, it can’t lend him the comfort of someone who cares about him. He doesn’t even feel awkward, because Thursday feels no awkwardness or misgiving himself. Just compassion, sympathy and support.

Morse isn’t sure how long they stay there; not more than a couple of minutes, he thinks. His control returns quite quickly, and once the worst of the emotions are gone he looks up, straightening and slipping away from Thursday’s hand. “I’m alright, sir. Thank you.”

Thursday gives him an evaluating look, then nods. “Alright. I’ll run you home.” 

\---------------------------------------------------

By the time they reach the lodging house Morse has pulled himself together enough to shake off Thursday’s offer of company. “I’m alright, sir.” He is, in a way. Or will be.

Morse goes upstairs, sits down in the worn chair provided for him, and closes his eyes. After a minute, he reaches out and lowers the needle onto the turntable. He doesn’t need to look; he knows the machine’s dimensions by heart. 

There’s a quiet whisper of static, and then Rosalind Calloway’s voice fills the tiny flat. 

It hurts; hurts like a knife slicing down through his throat to his heart. But that’s mostly his pain, his anguish, not hers. As the record plays on, he feels the last traces of Rosalind Stromming’s twisted love fade away, leaving him alone with his colder, cleaner grief. That, he can surmount. 

\---------------------------------------------------

“DS Lott has decided to take an assignment with Vice in Kidlington,” Thursday tells him on the way to the train station the next morning. Morse blinks, puzzled. Thursday picks up in a slower, more contemplative voice. “Carshall Newtown, is that really what you want?”

“I’d thought about packing it all in, picking up my degree.” Carshall had been more than enough to drive him to it. And academe had always been a haven, except when briefly blighted by his emotions. To return to it would be… easy. Like going home. Or, a smaller and more cynical corner of his self feels, like retreating. 

Thursday sounds unimpressed. “The world’s long on academics, but woeful short of good policemen, Morse. Things as they are, I could use a permanent bagman. I mean, we did pretty well this time out. Give or take. I’d see you right, get you through your sergeant’s exam, of course.”

To stay simply for Thursday would be foolishness, but after the blind eye his former DI turned to his situation Morse has come to appreciate the importance of a sympathetic superior. Then again, with Lott and several of the men from January gone, Cowley holds little risk of becoming a second Carshall. And although he might not admit it aloud, when it comes to academe, Thursday may not be wrong. Alexander Reece flashes into Morse’s mind as he glances at himself in the rear-view mirror, all arrogance and superiority coated in charm, and he knows that that at least is not a future he wants. 

“Morse? _Endeavour_ ,” snaps Thursday. 

Morse looks to Thursday, surprised, to see him looking pointedly back. He turns and finds the light is green, and puts the car into gear. 

“There’s nothing for me in Carshall,” he says, as he pulls up to the station and stops. “Perhaps there could be something for me here. If you’re offering, sir…”

Thursday gives him a straight, sturdy look. “I am.” 

Morse nods, decision made. “Then I’ll come back.”

“Good. I’ll arrange the transfer.” Thursday holds out his hand; Morse smiles slightly and shakes it. Satisfaction, warmth, hope. 

“Thank you, sir. See you soon.” He gets out, picks up his cases, and heads for the platform.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse references the hymn "Let Us with a Gladsome Mind" ("For his mercies aye endure / Ever faithful, ever sure")


	2. summer solstice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred Thursday cleans house.

Thursday picks out an old tie this morning. It’s one of his best, dark grey with a pattern of white and silver fletching, but he hasn’t worn it in an age. The silver is real, embroidered over the original silk by Win nearly 20 years ago in their London flat, when that was the magic bullet of choice for those whose jobs put them on the streets after dark. Thursday’s seen enough men dead in the gutter to know that there is no magic bullet – only caution and speed and luck – but he appreciates her care all the same.

He doesn’t know what it is that makes him pull out the nod to the past today, but he doesn’t question it. His fingers remember the stiffness as he knots and slides it tight, the weight reassuring around his collar.

Win raises her eyebrows at him as he enters the kitchen, warm and smelling of toast and coffee. “Odd time to be digging out relics, isn’t it?” she asks with a smile, handing him his sandwich. 

“Thought we were meant to be going through and tidying up,” he protests innocently, kissing her cheek. She rolls her eyes.

“That’s spring cleaning.” She pauses, eyes dropping to the silver-fletched tie and rising again. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

He shakes his head. “Just some house-cleaning of my own to take care of. And the new lad starts today. Should be interesting.”

She turns back to pour out some coffee, the thick smell rich and inviting. “Mind you don’t put too much on him. You’ve wanted shot of Arthur for a long time, Fred, but you hardly know the lad –”

He moves towards the dining room, hearing her follow. “Don’t worry, I’ll start him slow.”

\----------------------------------------------

The black Jaguar is waiting by the kerb when Thursday steps out after a quick breakfast, his new bagman waiting behind the wheel. 

“Morning, Morse,” he says, getting in. “You’re welcome to come in. We don’t bite – at least not since the kids outgrew their nappies.”

Morse gives him a shy, fleeting smile which Thursday interprets as vague thanks and solid refusal, and puts the car in gear. For all his earnest keenness, Morse apparently has a blind spot when it comes to appearance – his hair could use a good combing, his shirt a good ironing, and his suit a good pressing. But it’s early days. 

“Everything alright at the nick this morning?” Thursday continues, pleasantly.

“Yes, sir. It all seemed in order.” Morse keeps his eyes on the road, but his tone is straightforward.

“Good. Before we get there, I’ve a couple things to say.”

They stop at the light on the corner, and Morse looks over, suddenly watchful.

“You got my note about Mr Crisp stepping down – since then, I’ve been asked to stand in until they can fill his position. Shouldn’t take too long, but I’ll have my plate full for the next few days. And I might as well say, I have a bit of house cleaning in mind. Crisp sat by and watched the rot set in – we both know why. Before the new man comes in, there are a couple of old … friends I need to have words with.”

They’re moving again now, running smoothly through town. All around, Oxford is preparing for the solstice. Men are out on ladders repainting door and window trim, checking outdoor sigils and charms. Inside windows and doors, shopkeepers are visible checking the security and strength of their more vital internal seals. 

“While I’m about that,” continues Thursday, “I want you to keep your head down. You don’t need to start off your new post with a reputation as a toadie. You just keep clear of me for the next couple of days until the dust settles. Don’t worry – I’ve some work lined up for you. Then when the new man comes on, you’ll come on under me in earnest. Alright?”

Morse frowns. “I don’t mind helping, sir – ”

“I know, and I appreciate that, but it’s not about what you mind or don’t mind. It’s about me taking care of some business I ought to’ve dealt with a long time ago. Right?” he repeats, more firmly this time.

“Alright, sir.” Morse doesn’t look happy, but he nods.

Thursday supposes, now that he says it aloud, he does know why he picked out the tie. Old friends and unfinished business feels like something much deeper and darker than bent Oxford coppers. Feels like London – like fog and blood and shadows – and a photograph that Morse couldn’t stand to hold.

\--------------------------------------------------

“You’ve met DS Jakes?” Thursday asks, as they enter the CID office. Jakes stands, suit, shirt, tie all pressed so neatly they could cut. Perhaps it will rub off on Morse. But frankly, he doubts the lad has that kind of flash in him. 

“Briefly, sir,” says Morse. 

“Jakes transferred over from county to fill one of our empty slots. Neither of you’ve been in the nick too long, so it’ll be up to you to help each other get along. It’s not ideal, but there you are. Morse, I’ve got some things to hand off to you. Jakes – everything alright?”

The sergeant nods. “Yes, sir. Nothing new in.”

“Right.” He leads the way into his office, where one of the two interview chairs has been taken up by a large briefcase, topped by a clipboard. Thursday nods at it. “That’s your job for the next two days.”

Morse steps over and picks up the clipboard, glancing at the title. His face falls as he reads it, and then skims through the first page, flipping it over to glance at the second. He looks up at Thursday.

“Cowley Station Seals and Sigils Catalogue?” he demands, near-incredulous.

“Now don’t start. I told you, you’re to keep a low profile. Every year someone has to check every seal and sigil in the station to make sure they’re still intact, and not a single person in the damn place wants to. That means you’ll have the gratitude of the entire station on your side, never a bad thing. Further, it will give you a chance to go everywhere and meet everyone – I’m too busy to take you around, and Jakes doesn’t know everyone yet.”

He round his desk and unlocks his side drawer, fishing out the ring of keys that came with the kit. “You’ve the list there of all the items that need to be checked, and in the case is everything you could need to replace or repair them. Here are the keys to all the rooms, except a few private offices which you can get from their owners. Alright?” He hands the keys across the desk to Morse, who shrugs.

“I guess so. I’m not very handy, sir.”

“You’ll manage. Just mind you don’t fall off a ladder.”

“Ladder?” asks Morse, but Thursday’s already turning his attention to the papers on his desk, and after a moment the DC takes the clipboard and case and disappears. 

\--------------------------------------------------

Thursday has three names on his list, and he would be happy if he could succeed in convincing two to move on to different pastures. With limited time and authority the trick is to gather enough evidence to _suggest_ he could bring a case for dismissal if he chose, while of course he could never manage it for one, never mind three in the time allotted. 

As he goes about his business in the station, speaking with officers in the CID and uniform division, pulling files in the filing room, evidence from the evidence lock-up, he occasionally sees Morse about his duty.

More often than not, the lad is on a chair or step-stool, some carpentry implement in hand, examining a piece of ironwork or engraving mounted by a previous generation. By the afternoon of the first day he’s acquired a pencil behind his ear, a ruler in his jacket pocket, and grey rings of dust around both his cuffs. 

It’s late in the afternoon of Morse’s first day by the time the lad makes it into Thursday’s office, case in one hand and clipboard under the opposite arm. If he looked dishevelled this morning, he looks a complete mess now – dust spread to his hair, face and the shoulders and elbows of his jacket. But he smiles tiredly at Thursday as he enters. “Afternoon, sir. Can I check in here?”

Thursday nods him in. “Go ahead. How are you getting on?”

“Alright, I think. I’ve done nearly the whole second floor – just the other private offices in the CID to go. Downstairs tomorrow, then outside and the basement. It’s mostly just straightening things and securing loose nails. Some new script-work in the evidence room; lots of heavy seals in there, with so many murder weapons and potential cursed objects. And all the mead wort’s been pinched from the gents’.” 

“That happens every year. There’s always some bugger too cheap to buy his own.” He watches as Morse circles the room slowly, checking the cardinal talismans in the corners, the iron over the windows and door, and then the smaller charms. Although his process is perhaps not entirely efficient, he is meticulous, and checks everything off against the list, making a few notes as he goes. 

“Thank you, sir,” he says when he’s finished, picks up the case, and walks out. Thursday watches him pass Jakes, who stares after him with an unreadable expression, and then disappear down the hall towards what used to be Crisp’s office. 

Thursday turns back to his expanding piles of paperwork, and continues in the task of trying to construct the solid cases he knows are there from them.

\-------------------------------------------------

The type in the stacks of files, and worse, his own handwriting, is beginning to blur when Morse returns at the end of the day. Thursday glances past the DC at the office beyond and sees it’s empty – a look at his watch reveals the reason. 

“It’s nearly 6, Morse,” he exclaims, somewhere between irritated and resigned. Morse puts down the case and clipboard in the corner behind the door, looking sheepish.

“Sorry, sir. I started downstairs and lost track of time.”

Well, he knew he’d be getting his money’s worth from the lad when he brought him on. Thursday inclines his head. “Alright. Have a seat. There’s one thing I wanted to speak to you about, get clear from the start: ground rules.” He waits while Morse seats himself, brushing some of the dust from his sleeves but missing most – that battle has long since been lost. 

“Sir?”

“Mann, the … consultant… I worked with before set parameters for cases he wouldn’t take out of self-preservation. I think it’s prudent you do the same, given the risks associated with readings in emotionally-charged investigations.”

Morse had perhaps been lucky, in retrospect, with Mary Tremlett. The potential for skidding out grows with the intensity and the horror of the emotion, and violent deaths are among the highest wells of negative emotions. To have put Morse through the pain and danger of losing himself to those emotions, simply because Thursday had been negligent, is in hindsight both frightening and unacceptable. 

Morse traces his fingers over the curve of his eyebrow, leaving a faint smear of dust behind. “What did you have in mind?” he asks, consideringly. 

“For Mann, it was children or rape. Too much violent emotion in those cases. Strikes me as a good basis. I don’t mean you don’t work the cases – you just don’t perform any readings.”

Morse nods slowly. “That seems reasonable.”

“And, in light of the autopsy incident, I’m making it a requirement that I be present when you read corpses. We can re-evaluate going forward, but for now we play it safe.”

Morse gives a little dip of his head, embarrassed.

“Is there anything you want to add?” Thursday asks, watching the lad closely for signs of hesitation. It’s hard to predict whether Morse will come forward with a concern or keep it silent, but he’s never very good at hiding it. 

“Suicides,” says Morse quietly, after a minute. “For now. Once I’m more used to the – the strength of emotion in the dead, it might be alright.” He looks Thursday straight in the eye, sombre and thoughtful, but not concerned. 

Thursday nods straightforwardly. “That’s fine – very sensible.” He waits to see if there’s anything more, but Morse sits silently, rubbing reflective at the curve of his ear. Taking that to be all, Thursday stands without commenting further, retrieves the key ring from Morse and locks it in his desk. 

“Alright. Let’s go home.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

The next day continues much like the previous. Thursday spends much of it as his desk, building three separate layered piles of files, layers carefully separated by scraps of paper with scribbled notes. Ever-conscious of his limited time, he builds his cases based on personality – the stronger the man, the stronger the case. The weakest, Myers, he pulls together the shortest file on and counts on his stronger personality and authority to push the message through. 

It would be a comparatively simple task if he wasn’t simultaneously doing Crisp’s job, and also theoretically his own. But as it is, he finds himself delegating his own work to Jakes and putting the minimum into Crisps’ regular administration in the hopes that the CID will be able to keep running for a couple of days without constant supervision. He’s very aware that he’s doing three jobs poorly, and it rankles, but there isn’t much choice. 

Thursday starts talking to a few of the old guard in the late morning, and by the afternoon the rumours are starting; he can see the furtive conversations through his windows. Now and then he goes downstairs to get more records, or talk to men in the uniform division, and sees Morse at work – usually up a ladder. The lad seems to be making decent progress, and more importantly, keeping out of the brewing storm. Thursday lets him be.

\------------------------------------------------------

Morse comes back for him on time this evening, setting down his case and clipboard in the corner again. Thursday finishes the duty rosters he’s working on, initials them, and puts them aside. Administration, it seems, can’t entirely be left to its own devices after all. 

“How’re you getting on?” he asks, taking the keys from Morse and locking them in his desk. 

“Alright, sir. A bit slower today; the cell block and the main office took a lot of work. I should be finished tomorrow.”

“Just as well – it’s the solstice,” comments Thursday, glancing at the calendar. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter, just tradition and common sense.” If you have to leave a building vulnerable to repair its seals, best do it while the night’s at its shortest. Of course, plenty of touched get about in the daytime, but the tradition’s held all the same.

He passes Morse, picking his hat up off the stand. “Ready?”

At the lack of an immediate answer he turns to find Morse watching him, looking poised to ask a question. He raises his eyebrows to prompt the lad. 

Morse glances at Thursday’s desk. “Those men,” he begins, nodding to the files. 

Thursday checks the door out of the corner of his eye: shut. “You want to know why?” he asks, trying to keep the sudden tiredness out of his voice. He doesn’t really want to discuss this, doesn’t want to defend himself. But he also doesn’t need Morse getting ideas about him ruling Cowley as an autocrat, playing favourites and pushing out enemies. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Bribery; extortion and violence; corruption of justice – misplacing, tampering with, and planting evidence.” He points at each of the files in turn. “You might call them open secrets; most of the more senior members of the station know they’re at it, and have been for years. Until now, with Crisp’s hands tied and the protection of their assorted political friends, they were safe. I can’t guarantee that whoever is brought in will know enough or be interested enough to root them out – or clean enough to. So now’s the time.” 

Morse looks shocked. “All that’s been going on without anyone doing anything about it?”

For a moment Thursday wonders if he was ever this young. If he was, he can’t remember it. “This, and much more. Things have gotten bad for a nick this size, Morse, but by general rules you’ll always find some level of corruption and illegal dealings in any nick. It’s like any animal – the bigger it is, the bigger the shit it produces.”

Morse’s face seems frozen in a look of astounded revulsion. Thursday shrugs. 

“It’s all about balance. You can’t track down and deal with every misdemeanour; there simply isn’t the budget or manpower for it, and the union processes would kill you. But if you wait too long to deal with a serious problem, then the buggers’ve built up powerful friends with money and connections and you may not be able to get them out – or at best only transfer them and leave them to someone else to try to clean up.” 

Morse waves at the files on his desk, an irritated, curt gesture. “So this is a balancing act? You’ve picked the three biggest offenders to weed out – and the rest?”

“Maybe the new Super’ll look into things; if he seems interested, I can drop a few hints in the right direction,” says Thursday, with equanimity. 

“And if not, everything just sinks below the surface.” Morse huffs. 

“We do the job to the best of our abilities, lad, and we influence what’s within the sphere of our influence.”

Morse pulls at his collar as if it’s choking him. “It doesn’t seem like enough.”

“No,” agrees Thursday, softly. “It rarely does.” 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

“Happy Solstice, sir,” says Morse the next morning, as Thursday enters the car – the lad still isn’t coming up to the house. His irritation from yesterday seems to have blown over, though; he is fresh-faced and pleasant as he greets his boss. 

“I suppose,” replies Thursday, trying in vain to stretch his back against the Jag’s upright seat. “Spent most of the evening doing the house. Sam was supposed to lend a hand, but he developed a last-minute commitment. Don’t know how you’ve been managing it.” 

Morse smiles softly. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Thursday notices Morse out in the motor pool throughout the morning as he pulls together the final pieces of his arguments, stopping occasionally to glance out the window at his bagman. It takes Morse nearly an hour to check the security of the wrought-iron fence encircling the entire back lot; each bar must be checked, and the ground around it examined for solidity. After that, there’s the exterior of the building itself, and the seals in the corners of the lot. It’s sometime around ten before Morse disappears, suddenly not there when Thursday gets up to stretch his back after completing his first file. 

He eats lunch at his desk again, crumbs littering the sheaves of notes and typed pages, but his concentration allows him to push through the second file just before two. He’s into his final notes on the last when Morse shows up at his door sometime around three. The DC is in just his shirt-sleeves, cuffs and elbows dusty. He is also empty-handed, face curiously expressionless.

Thursday frowns, lowering his pen. “Problem?”

Morse steps in. “I’ve finished nearly everything. Except – there’s a room in the basement I can’t get into.”

Thursday’s frown deepens. “You should have the keys.” He stands, picking up his own and following Morse out the door and locking it behind him – unusual, but he rarely has personnel files on his desk. 

Morse leads the way out of the CID office, down the main staircase and through the cell block to the small iron staircase that leads into the basement. Even with the lights on the space is poorly lit, occasional hanging bulbs not enough to brighten the wide darkness. The air is cold and dank; Thursday wonders how much moisture seeps in through the foundation – the walls here have not been covered or insulated, the original stone left exposed.

Most of the space is open, sparsely populated with old rubbish – piles of boxes, old furniture and miscellaneous odds and sods. The corner closest to the stairs is taken up by the iron-walled safe room, its own entirely enclosed space. Along the far wall to the left is a series of rooms – some of them are janitorial in nature, Thursday knows, to do with heating and plumbing. The wall is built of the same limestone as the original foundations, making these rooms likely the only ones original to the building. It’s an odd arrangement for an internal wall to say the least, but Thursday is neither an architect nor a historian.

Morse leads the way to the corner door, beside which he has left the box holding his supplies, as well as his clipboard, his key ring and an electric torch. 

“This is the last room,” he says, pointing. He picks up the key ring and the torch.

“There should be a key,” says Thursday, trying the brass doorknob. Locked. There’s a keyhole just above the door which looks in decent condition. “If not, we can get –”

“There’s a key.” 

Thursday turns to see Morse holding up the ring by one old, brass key. He makes to hand it to Thursday, the rest of the keys clattering against each other. 

Thursday doesn’t take it. “Then what’s the problem?” 

Morse looks at him for a moment, then snaps on the torch and turns to the door. He raises it so that the beam of light plays over the stone arch over the doorway. There are runes carved there – sigils. Old ones, from the looks of them, probably the same age as the building.

“I assume you know what those are?” asks Morse. His outstretched arm forms a white line; even in this light the cheap cotton of his shirt is semi-transparent and it’s easy enough to tell that beneath his sleeves his arms are pale and unmarked. Thursday frowns, but sets aside his irritation for the moment.

“Sigils; a barrier. To keep out blood-touched, and possibly moon-touched.”

Morse steps closer, the beam of light becoming more focused. He points it at the left side of the arch. “Those seal against blood-touched,” he says, and then plays the torch to the right. “Those, moon-touched. And those,” he adds flatly, moving it to hover over the sigils on the far right-side, “are for me.”

He waits a beat, then turns off the torch. The click is the sole sound in the suddenly silent basement. 

Thursday feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He tries to swallow, and finds his mouth too dry. “I didn’t know,” he begins, and runs out of words.

What had he thought yesterday? How young the lad was? Right now, there’s a very old look in his eyes – one that comes from being hurt too often.

“That people seal against sun-touched? Or that Cowley Station does? The first item on the list for this room is to maintain the integrity of the sigils; you’ve been doing it for decades,” says Morse, harshly. He clearly surprises himself with his own vehemence, backing away a step and giving his head a shake. “Sorry. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Thank you. The answer is: both.” He speaks calmly and evenly. As he finishes, he takes the key ring from Morse and opens the door. 

Thursday reaches automatically for a light switch but finds none. He turns and takes the torch from Morse, noting his bagman’s care to keep away from the threshold and feeling his stomach turn. Poorly executed sigils can cause only minor pain and fail to deny entry, but most of the proper ones cause severe consequences – generally crippling pain or paralysis. Although illegal, some cause death. Thursday sets his jaw and returns to the corner room he’d never given a second glance to before now.

The room is small, only six feet by six feet. Its two side walls have been lined with metal shelves. On them are stacked filing boxes, the dust and outdated boxing material showing most of them to be ancient. On the wall to his left there are a few more recent boxes; he opens the closest and takes out a few files, stepping back outside and handing half to Morse. 

They’re official police records from the station – originals, not duplicates – and as he flips through them quickly to understand what he’s looking at he sees it’s a very mixed bag: some are CID case files, but some are Uniform logs and reports – arrests, complaints, case files. And there are more – a couple of logs from the cells, an internal disciplinary letter for a PC. The time period is fairly spread out – over the past six or so years. Thursday frowns, flipping back to the beginning to read through more slowly and look for the connecting link. 

Beside him Morse snaps the files closed, making a low rasping noise in his throat. Thursday looks over at him, surprised, and sees his face twisted tight with anger. “Morse?”

“Don’t you see?” He gestures sharply at the files in Thursday’s hands. “This – everything in there, probably – it’s files that have been swept under the rug. Cases that were dropped, or deliberately mishandled, or where people were victimized. Because someone who was involved was touched, and we – the coppers – found out about it.” 

Thursday stares at his bagman for a moment; Morse is surprisingly coherent for a man with such wild eyes. His shoulders are raised and taut as if for a fight, but despite the fact that he’s nearly vibrating with nervous energy he’s holding himself still. Watching – waiting – for Thursday’s reaction. 

Thursday looks back to the files he’s holding and reads through them more slowly. Morse is correct in that none of the cases have been closed, and as he looks through them he finds the signs Morse spotted more quickly. In some the official case notes or other documentation records someone involved in the case as being touched, but in a few small hand-written notes have been slipped into the files noting it. The disciplinary letter for the PC – unsigned – was as a consequence of the man’s having beaten a prisoner senseless upon discovering he was moon-touched. 

Thursday closes the files slowly, feeling the edges crushing under his fingers and not bothering to stop it. All stations deal with stigma, with men who look for trouble and ignore those who need help. To an extent, the Force has internalized the notion that anyone touched is inherently dangerous, and that coppers exist to protect ordinary people from them, not the other way round. A lot of it is about fear – fear of the night, fear of fangs in your throat, fear of voices in your head, fear of turning into a twisted shade of yourself. Thursday knows those fears inside out, has walked hand in hand with them for decades. 

They are not an excuse. And they are sure as hell not a reason. Not for turning a blind eye, not for failing someone in need, and absolutely not for this.

Thursday puts the folders down on the ground and goes back into the musty room, picks up the box they came from and brings it out. He brings out, for good measure, the box next to it as well, and puts them both down beside Morse. Check his watch. 3:15. “There’s about twenty odd years of files there. I want you to go back through them. The whole station can’t have been complicit in this; it must have been a few well-positioned men closing down cases and burying paperwork when they could. There will almost certainly be a clerk from Records, as well as an officer from both the CID and Uniform, possibly more than one. Find me their names. You have until 4:30.” 

Morse blinks, some of his anger fading away. “You want me to investigate this,” he says, nodding at the boxes.

“That’s what I said. I’ve got to get back. Let me know what you find.”

Morse nods, looking slightly poleaxed by Thursday’s sudden show of trust. “Right, sir.”

Thursday leaves him the torch, and heads back upstairs. He has a sudden feeling he may need to drastically evaluate his plans.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Morse is at the door to his office an hour later with a small black notebook in hand. 

“It’s a bit difficult for me since I don’t know everyone here yet, sir,” he begins, shutting the door behind him and sitting down, “but I went back to 1940 just in case. The records were… quite numerous during the war,” he says, trying for neutrality but still sounding terse. 

Thursday nods; moon-touched couldn’t be drafted, and sun-touched could exempt out if they dared to reveal themselves – too many empaths and telepaths broke down on the battlefield, crushed by their comrades’ stress. With a skeleton police force operating, he can imagine how much sympathy existed for those who not only didn’t have to serve but were considered dangerous. 

“After that they thin out a bit, dropping on average to about five cases a year, with one or two other reports – logs from the cell block, letters of reprimand, and so on. You were right, most of the files can be traced back to the signing authority of a few individuals. Three clerks from records: Davidson, Masters, and Taylor. I checked, only Davidson is still working here. Three sergeants from Uniform: Carruthers, Lyndt and Jackson. And three men from CID: Holt, Bailey-Smythe and Lott.” He looks at Thursday, who lets out his breath slowly. 

Arthur Lott. Well, it’s not as though it should be a surprise. His only regret is putting up with the man for as long as he did. Thursday takes the book from Morse, frowning a little at the hen-scratch his DC apparently calls writing. 

“Lyndt was before my time – long gone. Holt retired ages ago as well. Bailey-Smythe is the DI in charge of night watch, and on my hit-list – corruption of justice, aptly enough. The two Uniform sergeants have never shown up on my radar one way or the other.” He taps the page slowly. “Four. Six, with my other two,” he says, sighing.

It’s too many. That many departures would leave a gap in the nick like a smile missing the front teeth, and everyone would know it’d been Fred Thursday who’d knocked them out.

“Sir?” Morse stares at him, eyebrows crinkling in disbelief.

Thursday folds his hands in front of him, leaning back from the notebook and the ugly choice he’s been handed. “I’d be lucky to be rid of two – three is pushing my luck. My position’s none too strong; I can’t go through the station sending men off the plank. If I did, the new Super’d toss me out and reinstate the others just to put me in my place – can’t have tin pot dictators bucking from below.” 

He pulls apart his hands and rips the page of names from Morse’s book. “You let me keep this. Finish up your day and go home. Don’t worry about me – I’ve some errands to run.”

Morse stares at him, indignation warring with resignation. Thursday raises his eyebrows and he snatches up his notebook. “Someone else will have to finish the basement,” he says, and strides sharply out. Thursday closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Outside, he can hear Morse and Jakes sniping at each other. He can’t hear the words, but their tones are clear enough – Jakes snide, Morse terse. It ends with Morse walking stiffly out, presumably down to the basement to gather his equipment. He sighs; all he needs is those two falling out – it would be easier than not. Well, he can’t worry about everything now.

Thursday takes out his pipe, filling it more slowly than usual, eyes on the pages covering his desk. Three complete files, four names in his bagman’s scrawl. Bribery, extortion, violence, corruption of justice, betrayal of public trust. And a room in the basement that was built to keep out evil and instead has bred it. 

He lights the pipe and lets the smoke curl around him, drawing a screen between him and the hectic bustle of the CID office beyond his door. Thursday sits there, just him and his pipe, the way it’s been most of the past ten years since coming to Oxford. And, eventually, he picks up the internal directory and reaches for the telephone. Dials. 

“Bill? Fred Thursday. Would you mind stepping up around 5:30? I know it’s a bit late. No – I’ve something private to discuss. And bring Rod, will you?” He hangs up, and this time digs his address book out of his top drawer. Flips through for a minute, then dials again. “Richard, it’s Fred. Could you stop by at 5:30? I know it’s a bit early for you, but it’s important. Thanks.” 

He puts the receiver down, takes another pull from the pipe, and sits back to watch the CID office empty. 

\---------------------------------------------------

Early on in his career, Thursday worked under a DI who once compared rounding up suspects to lifting rocks and looking to see what would come scuttling out. Watching the three senior officers arrive in his office through the dark CID office beyond he has that feeling now, as though he’s just turned over a stone and found something particularly distasteful under it. 

He stands to greet them; there are only two chairs and three of them, a fact not lost on anyone. 

“I’ll come straight to the point, gents,” he says, stepping back to lean against his window frame. “I know about the locked room in the basement. I know about the files. I know about your arrangement with Mr Davidson, who will be receiving a letter of dismissal from his superior shortly for repeat breach of practice. I don’t know if Crisp knew and turned a blind eye, or if you lot kept him in the dark, but either way he’s gone and I don’t feel like playing that game. 

“What’s going to happen is this: every file in that room is going to be returned to its proper place. And if you three trickle quietly away, then we need say no more about the puzzling mix-up that caused them to be down there in the first place. On the other hand, if you would rather contest this I’m prepared to go to the Chief Constable with hundreds case files – and more if I need them – showing deliberate and systematic prejudice and bigotry with you three as the incumbent ring leaders.” 

There’s a short, bristling silence, the air in Thursday’s office crackling with tension. Bailey-Smythe is the first to recover, the DI glaring as his colour begins to rise. “You’re asking for our resignations over, what, some misplaced files? You have no case, Thursday, and no friends. Not on this. Defending the ungodly only makes you enemies.”

“That’s what I’ll tell the papers then, shall I, when they ask why we’ve hundreds of open, unsolved cases involving people who are touched in the basement gathering dust? Because we’ve decided they’re ungodly, and not deserving of our assistance? I’ll be sure to give them your name, Richard. Of course they’ll have it anyway, seeing as you’re on most of the CID files.”

“This is blackmail,” begins Carruthers; Thursday rounds on him, striding up to his desk and opening his shoulders wrathfully. The three conspirators move back slightly.

“No, this is goddamn accountability,” he snaps, slamming his hands down on his desk. “I’ll make it plain. Happy as I would be to ask for your resignations, I said I’d let you fade away, and I will. You’re all nearing 60; take early retirement and this all goes away. Stick it out and my first call tomorrow is to Standish; my second is to the Mail.”

He stares them down, looking from Jackson to Carruthers to Bailey-Smythe as he leans over his desk, hard as steel. 

Jackson is the first to break. He just turns and walks out, silent to the last. Carruthers follows, cursing Thursday. Bailey-Smythe lingers, red face painted with fury and disgust. “You’re a right piece of work, Thursday, you know that? Who d’you think you’re protecting? You think them as has fangs and claws need the likes of us to keep away the burglars and muggers? Christ man, they’re the ones who keep ordinary folk from sleeping safe in their beds at night! Equal rights? That’s not what people need – they need safety. And that’s what they want. You’ve not won yourself any friends tonight.”

Thursday stares straight back, cold and unmoved. He’s seen worse than this little bigot and his band of toadies, much worse. “This isn’t a social club; we’re not here to make friends, we’re here to uphold the law.” It’s idealistic and naïve, but he’s finished with Bailey-Smythe and his crusade. He feels dirty; his nick feels dirty, dirtier than it did yesterday even and it was none too clean then. “You can get out, now,” he adds, low and dangerous. 

“You’re going to catch one in the back for this, Thursday, and when you do I’ll be there, laughing.” Bailey-Smythe storms out, slamming the outer door of the CID behind him. 

Thursday sighs, relaxing out of his reactive stance and feeling a tremor in his legs as his fight or flight response drains. Would it have been there ten years ago – five? 

Out in the crowded space of the CID office something moves between a shelf and a wooden partition, and he freezes, forgetting his age. “Who’s there?” he barks, pushing his chair back away from his legs with one ankle to make more room behind his desk. 

There’s a moment of stillness, a second bright burst of adrenaline driving icy needles into Thursday’s heart. Then a familiar, slim form rounds the main partition. Morse, carrying a truncheon in one hand, steps quietly into the light, looking self-conscious. 

“Christ, lad,” exclaims Thursday, falling back and passing a relieved hand over his eyes.

“Sorry, sir. I just thought you might have changed your mind about needing a lift after all,” he says innocently, as though there’s not a nightstick hanging from his hand. 

“Or perhaps a heart attack,” says Thursday, rather faintly. Morse gives him an unimpressed look, and he straightens slightly, allowing a shadow of a smile to creep onto his face. “Very thoughtful, Morse.” 

“Thank you, sir. And – about your decision, sir,” begins Morse. Thursday cuts him off, looking him steadily in the eye.

“I’m not looking for your approval. I did what I did for the good of the station – and the city. Those bastards just happened to be the dirtiest ones here. Understood?”

Morse closes his mouth, nods.

“Good.” Thursday softens, and drops his eyes to the truncheon. “Then go put that back, and take yourself off home. I meant what I said earlier – I do have some errands to run in town. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right. Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight.” Thursday watches Morse leave, his solitary footsteps echoing on the linoleum until they fade into silence. He waits for a good ten minutes, tidying up his desk and getting a head start on some of tomorrow’s paperwork. Then, certain Morse isn’t going to make another heart-stopping reappearance, he gets up to find the janitor’s closet. 

There’s still some cleaning up left to do.

\----------------------------------------------------

“I know I said you’d be back on cases as soon as I was finished my work,” begins Thursday, as they pull into the car park the next morning, “but I’ve one more assignment for you to wrap up before that. Shouldn’t take more than a day, I expect.”

Morse gives him a surprised look over the top of the Jag as they step out, bright summer sun already warming their shoulders. “Sir?”

“I want you to supervise the return of the files from the basement to their proper locations. I need someone I can trust in charge.” He leads the way to the back door, through the canteen and into the long back hall.

“But – I can’t,” begins Morse, frustrated, from behind. Thursday turns right instead of left, taking the short-cut to the cell-block. 

“I’m sure you’ll manage, constable.” 

Thursday flips on the lights and they descend the stairs into the basement, Morse fuming silently behind while the bulbs heat from buttery yellow towards a purer white. He stops at the bottom to let Morse pass him, his bagman giving him an irritated shrug. “I told you, sir, I can’t do anything down here, other than catalogue boxes as they’re brought out and risk making a fool of myself,” he says as he storms by.

Morse slows as he approaches the corner though, looking up at the arch over the door. He comes to stop almost under it, staring at it as though stargazing, before turning to find Thursday. His eyes are wide, bright with shock and a little awe. Above him from one side of the doorway to the other runs the crooked fissure it took Thursday a good two hours to chisel out with a hammer and screwdriver, cutting through every single sigil in the arch. 

“You did this, sir?”

Thursday shrugs. “There shouldn’t be anywhere in this station someone can’t go because of their blood – leastways not those with minds and souls. It should never have existed in the first place.” He looks up at the broken seal. “Is it enough?”

Morse reaches up slowly and brushes his fingers against the arch. He tenses, face tightening with pain, and Thursday steps forward – “Morse?!”

Morse pulls his hand away, turning to Thursday and shaking his head dismissively. “It’s alright, sir. The seal is broken; it’s just very old and very full of fear and hatred.” He’s rubbing his fingertips as though they were frozen, the corners of his eyes still crinkled. 

“It’s a wonder to me you haven’t taken to wearing gloves more often,” says Thursday, half-joking, as they step into the file room.

“There are two things you learn when you’re touched, sir; the second is to never do anything to give yourself away,” says Morse, matter-of-factly. “No empath will ever wear gloves except for an obvious purpose or by social convention.” He lifts the lid off a box of old files, glaring at the contents. 

“What’s the first?” asks Thursday, turning. He wonders, as he does, whether he really wants to know.

Morse looks up, his eyes and cheekbones catching the thin ray of light slicing in through the doorway, but not much else. It paints thin, sharp slivers where it falls. “Never tell anyone you can’t trust with your life,” he says, flatly. 

Thursday can feel the silence building up to smother them, hand in hand with Morse’s awkwardness. “You told me,” he says, with careful earnestness.

“No sir, I was careless and you found out, and there was no point denying it. But,” Morse cants his head to the side and puts down the lid in his hands, his expression lightening for the first time since they entered the nick, “I’m glad you did.”

“Thank you,” Thursday says, sincerely. And then, glancing around, “I’ll leave this lot to you, then. I’ll notify the filing room – they’ll send someone down to give instructions, and you can draft in some PCs to move the boxes. I’ll have some lights sent down as well. If Davidson tries to get involved, let me know; I’ll start the wheels in motion about him but I need to let that take its own course through Records. They’ll have enough evidence with this to deal with it on their own.”

“Right.” Morse pulls off his suit jacket, hanging it on the corner of one of the shelves, and turns to the shelf with the newest files. His arms are still bare under his pale sleeves. Thursday almost lets it go, but he’ll have to say something eventually, and the sooner the better. Before anyone finds out.

“I see you’ve still not indoctrinated yourself.” He nods at Morse’s arm. 

“Not sure the coppering fraternity is one I want to buy into at the moment, sir,” says Morse, looking pointedly around him. 

“I can understand that, lad, knowing what I do, but I can tell you that there isn’t any other copper in this nick who will without your explaining it to them, which you won’t. If they find out, they’ll ostracise you, plain and simple.” He pulls up the cuff of his own sleeve, revealing an inch of black ink depicting a complex braid pattern encircling his forearm in the light of the doorway. “It may have started as a hope and a prayer, a last chance if everything else failed to protect you, but it’s more now. It’s about showing you’re one of us – you walk our streets, you take our risks, you have our backs. That,” he glances at Morse’s unmarked arms, “says you don’t.”

He’s blocking too much of the light to be able to make out Morse’s expression, and the lad is saying nothing. Thursday shrugs. “It’s up to you – I’m not telling you what to do, lad. But if you do nothing, you’d better make damn sure no one finds out.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets,” says Morse, in a low voice. Thursday, half out of the doorway now, pauses.

“I know this hasn’t been a good couple of days – especially not for your first week. And I’ll not say it’s not a rotten job because it can be – it is, often. But I’m proud of being a copper, Morse, and I’m proud of the work I do. And if decent men stand by and opt out of a faltering system rather than helping to steady it, then the scum like Bailey-Smythe will rule the roost. You might think on that a little.”

There’s no immediate answer from Morse, so he takes his leave, heading back up the stairs and through the station to the CID.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Thursday can tell something’s up the moment he steps through the glass-panelled doors; there’s a peculiar stiffness to the actions of all the men in the office that’s entirely unnatural. He glances to Jakes and the sergeant’s eyes snap to his office. 

Thursday enters to find ACC Deare seated in one of his interview chairs. The man rises as Thursday enters and turns, smiling. “Ah, Thursday. Sorry to drop in unannounced like this. I would have called ahead, but I happened to be in town and thought I might as well take advantage.”

Thursday feels a frost settle sharply over his heart, cutting in deep and sending icy blood pumping through his veins. 

“Of course, sir,” says Thursday, assuming a poker-face and waving Deare back into his seat. Surely the ousted men couldn’t have complained so high so soon – and if they had, surely Deare wouldn’t have bothered to come out here in person at 8:30 to deal with it. He seats himself with impassivity. 

“You will be pleased, I am sure, to know that we have found a successful candidate for the position of DCS here at Cowley,” says Deare, smiling, and Thursday feels the frigidity around his heart begin to melt away. “Very experienced, a long record of service both with the Force and in positions with political intricacies, which is of course a necessity here.”

“Of course, sir,” agrees Thursday, noting the focus of Deare’s summary on the man’s experience rather than strengths or talents. 

Deare hands over a page with a few short lines of text – an abridged _curriculum vitae_. “Bright, Reginald Bright. Yes, I think he’ll do very well.”


	3. WOLF CUB

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changing political winds catching Morse off-guard as he struggles with the rift between his own values and his colleagues'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scenes which are not included are assumed to have occurred identically to canon.

Morse’s finger and thumb are still smarting from his earlier carelessness with a match when he arrives at the CID office, forcibly resisting the urge to either shake them or put them in his mouth. As he slips through the doors he finds himself at the back of a throng of men and a few women, all listening to someone speaking from near Thursday’s office with a reedy voice. Morse moves through the crowd until he arrives at the front besides Jakes, and sees Thursday standing behind a dried-up little husk of a man in full uniform. It can only be Detective Chief Superintendent Bright, their new chief.

“ – for holding the fort so admirably pending my arrival. His dedication to order and proper conduct is an example I am sure we can all set store by.” He glances at Thursday as he delivers the rather pointed compliment; Thursday nods politely. Morse stares at the inspector, trying to make eye contact, but Thursday turns to look resolutely over the heads of the crowd.

“Secondly, you should be aware that I am putting this station on notice. I do not propose to speak ill of my predecessor, but where there are breaches of procedure or Spanish practices, you will find me a horse of a very different colour. That being said, I want you to regard my appointment as a _tabula rasa._ A clean slate,” he expands, apparently seeing the blank looks of several of the members of the crowd. “You play fair by me, and I will play fair by you. Carry on.” 

The crowd breaks up, Jakes putting in a cheap dig at Bright’s soft r’s as the DCS disappears down the hall towards his office. Thursday looms up out of nowhere behind the sergeant, surprisingly quiet on the linoleum. “If you’ve no work, Jakes, some will be found for you.”

The smile disappears from Jakes’ face instantly, replaced by a mask of professionalism. “Sir.” He returns to his desk, his mates fading away. Thursday gathers Morse up with a glance and returns to his office. 

“Don’t let them get a rise,” says Thursday, as soon as the door shuts. 

Morse, still standing, glances back over his shoulder out the window at Jakes, smoking as he reads a case file. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

Thursday sits down, taking out a soft leather case and pulling out his pipe and pipe cleaners. He cleans out the pipe without watching, hands clearly guided by long habit. “Insubordination is what it is, by proxy. You’re my bagman.” 

Morse blinks. It’s almost the first time Thursday’s said it, only his third week in the job. Even so he’s already known universally throughout the station as Thursday’s bagman – but it’s not quite the same. For one thing, when most everyone else says it, the words are tinged with something between curiosity and suspicion. Thursday just states it as immutable fact. It’s surprisingly reassuring. 

“I know what’s going around the canteen. Job should’ve gone to a detective sergeant. But it didn’t, it went to you. You’re here on merit.” 

Morse can feel the smile trying to break out, and doesn’t manage to suppress it entirely. “Sir – about Mr Bright’s speech,” he says, rather hurriedly, “That is, does he know? About the basement?” Morse’s eyes begin to fall, but he catches himself and keeps his gaze steady. Thursday pauses in the act of tipping out his pipe.

“He knows we discovered some improper filing practices and put an end to them; further than that, no. He’s also aware, probably through Crisp himself, of some of the other… issues in the nick.”

“Will he do something about them?” asks Morse, pointedly. 

Thursday looks straight at him, gaze inscrutable. “I’m sure we’re all wondering that, constable,” he says, impassively. Morse stiffens slightly, his familiarity falling away. 

Thursday’s eyes drop to his desk, and he retrieves a slip of paper. “Right. Sudden death on Southmore Road. Uniform just wants the all clear.”

Morse strides over and takes it. “Thank you, sir.”

\-------------------------------------------------

“Oh. You’re Morse,” says the large PC at the scene. Morse unconsciously fills in the unspoken subtitle that he can read plainly in the man’s unimpressed expression: Thursday’s bagman. “Strange.”

“What is?” asks Morse with a touch of irritation, reclaiming his warrant card.

“Me. I am. My name. Jim Strange. The, uh, sawbones is here if you’d like a word,” he suggests, moving on from the unfortunate topic of his name. Morse allows him to lead the way to the scene of the possible crime. It’s rather refreshing to meet a man with a name nearly as awkward as his own.

\--------------------------------------------------

Something doesn’t sit right about the sudden death – Margaret Bell, a student a secretarial college – her age, the smoked cigarettes in the saucer, and the French letter in her purse. But sudden deaths with no apparent signs of foul play seem not to be worth pursuing, and Thursday pushes him away from the case in favour of the Gas Meter menace. Morse takes a weak stab at that, but there’s no meat on that bone and he’s soon back on trying more likely leads: Beauford College, the secretarial school, the post office where worked Margaret Bell’s secret beau. 

And, when the partner of Margaret Bell’s GP ends up dead in a public convenience with a bullet in his brain, it surely must be more than a coincidence. 

They speak with Prentice, Margaret’s GP, first, and from him hear about Mrs Helen Cartwright, and her father Sir Edmund Sloan – “The Atom Man,” as Thursday calls him. Morse knows of him as well, although, “Renowned nuclear physicist and Chair of Physics at Beauford College,” would more likely have been his epithet.

Prentice insists on accompanying them to visit the family to Sloan House to break the news, leading the way in his little MG. Sloan House, it transpires, is a towering manor house on the edge of the town sitting on substantial grounds. They drive through past tall iron gates and over a well-kept bridge fording a running brook – strong, natural protection – then along nearly half a mile before reaching the house. 

Helen Cartwright isn’t at all what Morse was expecting of a woman Prentice seemed so concerned to shield from the shock of her husband’s death. She strikes him as very typical of an upper-class British woman: polite, confident, and well-controlled. She is wearing a dress that to Morse’s inexperienced eye looks quite expensive, her hair done up perfectly, her jewelry and make-up subdued but in such a way as to quietly enhance. Helen Cartwright, it seems to Morse, suits her home very well – old money, and well acquainted with how best to use it. 

She shows them into a large room, her silver charm-bracelet jingling quietly as she throws open the door. Thursday invites her to sit down.

“Oughtn’t we to wait for Sir Edmund?” suggests Dr Prentice. Morse glances away, already feeling the blow. 

“Wait for Daddy for what?” asks Mrs Cartwright.

“I’m afraid I have some very grave news for you,” continues Thursday, ignoring Prentice.

“Who is it, Helen?” asks a new, fresher voice. Morse looks up to see a familiar face – a young woman he saw once getting off a bus at Cowley Parade, and on a second more memorable occasion pinching chocolate from the post office. 

“Uh – the police,” supplies Mrs Cartwright, somewhat vaguely. “My little sister, Mrs Walters.” 

Standing beside her sister, there couldn’t be more difference between them. Mrs Walters’ hair is long and untamed – not dirty or tangled, simply windswept – her clothes an untucked dress-shirt and a pair of capris trousers, her shoes simple pale flats that give the appearance of bare feet. They are cheap, and although they give her a kind of puckish attraction, they certainly have neither beauty nor elegance. As far as Morse’s quick glance reveals, she wears neither make-up nor jewelry, not even a wedding band. 

“Is it Daddy?” asks Mrs Walters hesitantly, fingers tangling together. Morse finds an interesting line in the carpet and follows it with his eyes.

“No ma’am. It concerns your husband, Mrs Cartwright. I’m sorry to tell you his body was found at Godstone this morning. He’d been shot.”

“Helen, I – I don’t…” chokes out Mrs Walters, flinching away. There’s a curious quality to her voice, low and rough. Morse’s eyes break away from the carpet and he looks over to see her reaching for the sideboard with a spasming hand as she collapses against it, legs shaking violently under her. 

He goes to reach for her; before he can, someone has grabbed his other arm in a painfully tight grip and is hauling him away. He turns around, shocked, to see Thursday dragging him across the room, face grim. 

When he looks back the girl is halfway to the floor, her hands now just a warped memory – fingers horribly shrunken and shrinking still, brown-blonde fur already growing in over them. Her face is turned away, but the angle isn’t sharp enough to hide the pointed muzzle, nor yet the fur-covered ears at the top of her head.

Beside her the doctor is speaking soothing nonsense as she groans. Her sister drops to sit on a sofa, staring blankly at the far wall, and Thursday releases Morse to go stand beside her. She looks up at him and takes a shaky breath, straightening herself. “Wait outside, please. She doesn’t – you don’t need to be here.”

“Are you sure,” begins Thursday, and she gives a cold frown.

“She’s perfectly safe – she takes her tablets. We wouldn’t –” Whatever it is she intends to say, she decides against, but Thursday nods and they slip out into the hall. 

Morse passes a hand over his face, feels it moist with sweat. There’s a wooden bench, probably William and Mary or of equal note, and he drops down onto it. Thursday sits down beside him and pulls out his pipe. 

“First time?” he asks companionably, tamping down the tobacco. Morse nods silently, staring into the distance. “Doesn’t often happen out of the full moon, not by accident. Hardly ever to those born to it, or those turned as adults – both learn their own ways of control quick enough, one way or another.”

Morse glances sharply at Thursday, who shrugs as he lights the pipe. “It may be our job to prove assumptions, but only those relevant to the case. All you need to bother about is remembering now you’ve seen it once not to get in the way of it again. You may not be so lucky next time – nice girl from a good family on her tablets.”

“Unfortunately, sir, I was born lucky,” reminds Morse. 

“That’s yet to’ve stopped anyone having their throat ripped out,” retorts Thursday. As there is no rejoinder to that, Morse sits silently.

\-------------------------------------------------------

He hears the clicking of – well, paws – on hardwood some minutes later and with Thursday’s nod turns to follow, the inspector knocking on the door and receiving permission to enter. 

There is a second door to the drawing room; Morse discovers the connecting corridor and trails after the doctor and Mrs Walters, tracking them down just as Prentice backs out of her room, closing the door behind him. “When can I speak to her?” Morse asks.

“Not for an hour, perhaps. The transformation is exhausting; she needs time to recover before she can undergo it again.”

He nods. “I’ll wait.”

\----------------------------------------------------

Thursday finishes his interview with Mrs Cartwright and Dr Sloan and returns to the station, leaving Morse to wait for Mrs Walters to feel more herself so he can take her statement – “Just the who what where and when of it is all we’re after for the moment,” says Thursday.

This continued piling on of restrictions is irksome to say the least, and Morse feels himself chafing under them. He watches, frowning, as the Jaguar pull away, then returns to the house. Right into the middle of a domestic dispute.

Mrs Walter, it transpires, is not only Mrs Cartwright’s younger sister, but also the mother of a young boy. A boy who, for some reason, is living with her sister apparently without his mother’s approval or desire. 

A young woman again, she enters the sitting room and first suggests she takes her son home with her, then pleads for him, then demands him. Her sister sits through it with a frustrated contemptuousness, her father with the air of a man adjudicating from on high. Dr Prentice sits silently, back bent and his hands between his knees, staring at the floor. 

At last, making no headway, Mrs Walters turns to Morse. “Will you give me the fare? Please? 10 shillings should cover it.”

Mrs Cartwright gives him a sharp look. “Please, don’t give her any money,” she says, as though instructing him not to reward a misbehaving child. 

“Of course,” he says, taken aback, as Mrs Walters leaves to telephone.

“Damn fool,” mutters Mrs Cartwright into her hand.

“Helen,” reprimands her father.

“He thinks he’s helping.” Mrs Cartwright gives him an utterly condescending look. “You think you’re helping, but you’re not. You don’t know her.”

She and Prentice file out, and Sir Edmund takes him through to his study. From there they watch the drama of the cab’s arrival – the renewed argument, the shouting, the tears. Mrs Cartwright’s victory, Mrs Walters’ departure. 

“You must think us very heartless. One has to put the child first.” Sir Edmund explains. “She’s not fit, you see. If something happened…”

Morse glances at him. “But she’s safe?”

“Oh yes – not infectious, certainly. But she can’t always control her changes.”

“When was she turned?”

“She was twelve. She was always a difficult child – she used to tell tall tales; lies I suppose. She hid things – _La Gazza Ladra_ , we called her. And she liked to bend the rules, break them, if she could. One night she stayed out late to see the moon.” He shrugs. “She was lucky; they might easily have killed her. As it was, we were a titled family with money and influence, and they were a mangy pack looking for one new cub. We had everything on our side; we got her back. Mostly.” He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. 

“Was she violent in her – fits?”

Sir Edmund wanders around his desk as he speaks, examining the various objects on it without looking at Morse. “I don’t know. This was before Quicksilver, as they rather distastefully call it these days. She was dangerous and unpredictable, and we couldn’t take the risk of having her near the family – near anyone. If she had turned anyone else… we had her put away. My wife was against it, but there was no other choice.” He opens the cover of a book, only to shut it again.

Mrs Cartwright comes in, closing the door behind her. “I’ve put Bobby down; hopefully he’ll just cry himself to sleep.”

“When was she released?” asks Morse.

“We were talking of Pamela,” explains Sir Edmund. Mrs Cartwright’s face darkens. 

“My God, even today.” She pours herself a drink from a decanter of brandy and crosses over to stand beside her father. 

“Helen,” warns Sir Edmund.

“Just after her eighteenth birthday. Though what that’s to do with my husband being shot, I have no idea.”

“Please,” says her father, the eternal referee in this family quarrel. 

Mrs Cartwright does as she’s asked. “When Mummy was dying, she had us promise to bring Pamela home. Frank explained there had been marvelous advances with drugs. Ways to keep her from infecting anyone – Quicksilver. She was even able to have Bobby without…” she purses her lips, and nothing more gets past. 

\------------------------------------------------------

He sees her again in the basement of the hospital, after the identification of her husband’s body. 

“It must have been difficult for you, growing up,” he says as they walk down the long corridor smelling of antiseptic, golden afternoon light filtering in partially closed blinds. It’s midsummer and the hallway is warm, but all he feels here is the hospital’s usual pall of grief and fear and unhappiness. 

“A bit too much of the P word,” Mrs Cartwright agrees. “For all that, I missed her – missed her terribly.”

Morse glances at her. “How long was she gone?”

“Six years. It wasn’t an asylum,” she hastens to explain. “People always assume that. Mummy never would have allowed that. It was – very nice. A colony. For people like Pamela.”

“A lycanthropic colony?” asks Morse carefully. 

“Yes. It was as much for her own safety as anyone else’s. Pamela has never had any self-discipline; she simply does as she pleases and damn the consequences. It would only have been a matter of time before she was found out and known to be… unstable. I’ve heard from the Reyists what that can lead to.”

Morse raises his eyebrows. “The Reductionists?”

Mrs Cartwright stares steadily back at him. “That’s an unpleasant name.”

“It’s an unpleasant doctrine,” he retorts, surprised. That the sister of a wolf should have any association with them seems somewhere between cruelty and stupidity. But then she’s standing here in with her ears and wrists adorned with silver; he supposes he need look no further for her views. 

\------------------------------------------------

Morse’s only just sat down at his desk when he hears the high bray of Bright’s voice, augmented by Thursday’s lower rumble. The two of them, followed by Jakes, come around the corner, discussing from the sounds of it Dr Cartwright’s body. Morse makes to stand, but catching Thursday’s repressive look sits down again. They stop by the evidence desk, staring down at the contents of Dr Cartwright’s pockets. 

“Then what was he doing driving all the way out to Godstone?” the DCS is asking.

“Fancy woman on the go, maybe,” suggests Thursday.

“There is another possibility, sir,” puts in Jakes. “Given where it’s happened.”

“Oh, drinks for two,” says Thursday. Morse finds himself unconsciously running a finger under his collar, and forces himself to stop. They never dealt with vampires in Carshall; the concrete city planned out in straight grids didn’t seem to appeal to the eldest of the moon-touched. But in his Oxford days some of the far edgier students had occasionally spoken of drinks for two – quid pro quo arrangements with vampires whereby both parties were satisfied, one with dinner, the other with a temporary experience of ecstasy. “Or could just be a case of the chase-me Charlies,” finishes Thursday. 

Jakes shrugs. “No children, have they?” 

“An occult or immoral rendezvous?” demands Bright, sounding highly shocked. “I should sincerely hope this case might be resolved without resorting to gross slurs on a man’s character. For heaven’s sake, Dr Cartwright was married, wasn’t he?” He marches off, leaving Thursday and Jakes to stare in silence for a moment before breaking up. Thursday heads for his office, catching Morse’s eye as he turns, and Morse stands. Jakes passes him as he steps out.

“How’s it going with the wolf girl? You want to watch out for them, Morse. They can be real bitches.” He grins at Morse’s glare and continues on.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Morse visits Pamela Walters the next day. He has questions he needs to ask, but he’s also curious to see her outside her family’s sphere of influence.

She lives in a tiny, cramped flat overlooking a carpark on one side and a brick wall on the other. For someone who is, he suspects, living on an even smaller income than his she’s done a remarkably good job furnishing it – but that might just be effort. The one set of items that’s conspicuous by their absence is seals. Apart from an ancient horseshoe over the door, he doesn’t see any in the flat. It strikes him as a bad sign; while no touched can be turned again and certainly few would attack a werewolf, nothing is safe from blood-touched. 

“Dad sent you here to spy on me, did he?” she asks, beginning to tidy up the room.

“No, I just wanted to make sure you were alright after yesterday.”

“What did they say about me? Did they tell you that I’d been put away? That I’m a danger to Bobby? I’m not. I haven’t had a turn in over a year. It was the shock of hearing about Frank like that.” She carries some papers to a chest of drawers and stops, suddenly tired of the task. She stands there instead, tracing her thumb over the edge of a letter, watching it flutter. 

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Dr Cartwright?”

“No, of course not. He was… kindness itself.” She closes her eyes, then pulls herself together and continues loading her odds and ends onto the drawer. As she does her loose jumper catches on the edge and is shucked up; she pushes at it impatiently. And Morse sees the pale scar on the wrist below. “If it wasn’t for him, I would still be locked up. You probably think I should be, after my last performance.” She shuts the drawer.

“No,” says Morse. “People shouldn’t be locked up simply for being what they are. And they can’t keep you from your child.”

She sniffles. “You don’t know my family. I can see him. Visit. I have to pretend not to mind. Not to make a fuss, or they’ll put me back inside and I won’t see him until... At least I know he’s just a bus ride away.” She looks at him, pushing the curtain of her hair away from her face. It’s reddened with her recent tears, her eyes still swollen and watery. She reaches out and, before he can politely pull away, puts her hand on his. 

Sorrow and loneliness lance through his heart, tearing gaping wounds in him. There’s grief too, stinging like salt, but it can’t compare in strength or depth to the first two emotions. Morse pulls his hand away, jaw tight. 

“Take me to bed,” she asks, softly. “You don’t need to buy me things or tell me you love me. Just – please just for a while?”

He backs away, nearly falling through the doorway leading into the dark hall. “I’m here in a position of trust,” he babbles, banging his shoulder against the dented wooden frame.

“I’m not your type.”

He steps towards the front door. “Um, I should go.”

She reaches after him, desperation in her eyes. “No – stay, please.”

Morse thinks of this tiny flat, unprotected from evil; of the scar on her wrist; of her deep lingering loneliness. He steps back inside.

\-------------------------------------------------

In Thursday’s ongoing and irritating newly-acquired interest in Morse’s attention to by-the-book coppering, the DI asked him this morning how he was getting on with studying for his sergeant’s. Morse, suddenly made acutely aware that the exam is six months away and he hasn’t in fact gotten anywhere at all with it, made some vague answer. However he takes an unlooked-for opportunity upon his return from Pamela Walters’ when he notices PC Strange with the Fittings book on his desk, and asks the constable if he can spare some time to test him over pints. 

The pub is surprisingly busy, full of young raucous Cowley men just off work, and they have to fight for a small table in the main thoroughfare. It’s hot and the air smells of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne; the beer is frothy and barely cool. 

He has many good reasons for not being able to concentrate on Strange’s quiz. But in fact, it has nothing to do with anything in the room.

“There’s this girl,” he finds himself telling Strange. “Well, she’s beautiful – incredibly so. But there’s a … sadness about her. Nothing left to hope for, but somehow holding on.” He drains his glass, mind still partially in Mrs Walters’ flat. 

Strange is watching him with an odd look – almost amusement. “You’re alright actually, aren’t you? Most of the lads’ve got you down as a bit of a queer fish.”

“Have they?” asks Morse, wide-eyed. 

“Standoffish. Rude,” clarifies Strange easily, as if it hasn’t occurred to him that Morse might be offended by the remarks. There’s something engaging about that trust.

“Right,” says Morse, nonetheless taken aback. He’s grown used to the notion of irritation directed at his title; he never considered it might be directed at him personally. 

“You’ve got to rub along with people in this job if you want to get along.” Somehow, Strange has a simple genuineness that makes it seem completely normal for a PC to be offering a DC – and a DI’s bagman – career advice. “Though maybe it’s not so easy on a case like this; people can get a bit funny when it comes to moon-touched.”

Morse glances at him sharply; he shrugs. “News travels fast, matey. I think your heart’s in the right place, for what it’s worth. But that’s not always the popular view.” He stands, indicating Morse’s empty glass. “Same again?”

Only moments after Strange leaves, Morse connects the dots between Margaret Bell’s heart-attack and Dr Cartwright’s death in a public convenience. 

As it turns out, this comes too late for the Reverend Monkford.

\--------------------------------------------------------

The Reverend is lying on his back in front of the alter, the black of his spread-eagled form interrupting the long line of green carpet. The usual sacraments have been laid out – incense, iron rods, wooden cross – for all that they are utterly unnecessary here; hallowed ground offers a sanctuary which cannot be trumped. 

Morse listens to Jakes’ summary of the discovery of the body, including the DS’ improbable theory about mad monks, then slips out to cross the mossy stone path to the vicarage. 

The study is a complete tip, drawers and cupboard doors open, papers and books lying strewed about as reported. He uncovers a paper with the mottos Jakes was quoting from – “DO NOT TALK AT MEALS; DO NOT TALK TRAVELLING; DO NOT TALK IN THE BILLET.” And then a book of professionally-photographed coins, and some corresponding empty coin boxes. 

He looks up at a step behind him; Thursday. “Someone was looking for something,” he says. “What if Reverend Monkford was lying about his bike being stolen? What if he was at Gladstone that evening and he saw –” 

“Look, I can see you’ve got the bit between your teeth,” interrupts Thursday, “but there’s been a development. Let’s get a drink.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“It’s not her,” says Morse, immediately, when Thursday tells him about Pamela Walters’ attack on the orderly, about the new light this throws on the case.

“Maybe, maybe not. The point is, you should have checked.” Thursday pulls out his pipe and begins to light it.

“I didn’t need to.” Because _it’s not her._ In his heart, it’s an a priori statement, no room for doubt or argument. He just knows. So would Thursday, or any man in his right mind if they bothered to look past the family and the money and the prejudice.

“Why? ‘Cause she’s a damsel in distress? Or ‘cause her secret isn’t so very far from yours? When it comes to a bird with a wing down, you’ve got a blind spot a mile wide – it’ll be your undoing.” 

“This isn’t about me,” flares Morse. “There’s a child in the middle of this being kept from his mother, in case anyone hadn’t noticed; if that’s a … blind spot, then so be it.”

Thursday looks at him evenly, placing the lighter down on the bar. “Still not about you, is it?” He sighs. “Look, lad…”

“Derek Clark’s lying, sir,” interrupts Morse heatedly, with absolutely no appetite to hear whatever Thursday may have to say about his childhood. “I know he is.”

“Look, he may not have been entirely straight with us about the Margaret Bell girl, but at the time the Monkford was being shot he was being trussed up and beaten senseless at the post office.”

Morse shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know…”

“Well I do. You’re being returned to general duties for the present,” says Thursday.

“Where’s this come from? Bright?” demands Morse, feeling very suddenly like hot glass dropped into ice-water: under intense pressure to crack and let the full force of his shock and hurt and anger pour out. 

Thursday lets a hint of recrimination into his voice. “Mr Bright. No, it’s my decision, best you hear it from me. Six months’ time, a year, get through your exams, we can look again.”

Morse stares. “And in the meantime?” he asks, incredulous. 

Thursday looks him straight in the eye. “Learn your trade. Stop relying on what only you know, or think you do; that won’t get you anywhere in a court of law. Or with your colleagues.”

He stands, face hot and flushed. “Thanks for the drink,” he says, heading for the door. But it’s not enough. Not for Thursday, who brought him to Oxford, who’s supposed to have his back, who _knows_ how good he is. Who promoted him above every DS in the station, and expected him to fight through the ensuing storm. He turns back.

“I’m a good detective,” he snaps. 

Thursday looks over his shoulder, infuriatingly calm. “And a poor policeman. No one can teach you the first; any fool can learn the second.”

Morse marches out of the pub, teeth gritted. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

He goes back to Pamela Walters. She didn’t do it; he knows that. But if he’s missing something, if Thursday is right about his failing to follow up on leads… 

“It’s come to light you assaulted an orderly in the institution,” Morse says, sitting on a chair hastily cleared of newspapers in the darkened sitting room. The curtains are closed today, as though the effort of opening them was too much.

“There were some nice ones, and some not so nice. Fifteen year-old girl, you can imagine.” Her voice is on the edge of cutting out, scarcely enough strength behind the words to make them audible. “If Frank hadn’t come along when he did…”

“I found this, the other evening.” He hands her the envelope he found here in a volume of Tennyson. “You saw him often enough. What was it that he had to put in a letter that he couldn’t say to your face. My colleagues are looking at you as a suspect for murder – do you understand that?”

She looks at him slowly, her wide eyes slanting to the side full of fear, denial. 

He shakes the letter. “Now I think they’re wrong, but if I’m going to help you, you have to give me the truth. Were you having an affair?” 

She turns away from him, shuddering and gasping for breath. 

“Uh – Pamela? Pamela?” He starts to reach out, but is stopped by the memory of Thursday’s grip on his arm. He hurries to his feet instead but can do nothing but stand, backed into his corner, intensely awkward and completely useless.

As he watches, Pamela falls from the sofa, grasping futilely at the edge of the coffee table with a white-knuckled hand, her breath near to choking in her throat. As her fingers twist into claws they score long white lines in the cheap surface of the table, her toes leaving similar rents in the carpet. As the line of her spine and hips begins to twist and reform he looks away, biting his lip as she makes low animal sounds of pain. 

Morse looks back only when her breathing has evened out somewhat, and the quiet but hideously organic sound of bone grinding and muscle reforming has ceased. 

In front of him is standing what anyone would take for a wolf, except perhaps for its muddy-blonde fur and the oddity of Pamela Walters’ clothes. She has the long angular muzzle and sharp ears, the long limbs and large clawed paws, the thick ruff of fur pouring out under the collar of her shirt. 

He realises, staring down at her, that he probably should be afraid – certainly, that’s what society has taught him. But for every legitimate horror to fear, society is full of those who create illegitimate ones. Full of people who believe anything touched is inherently evil – to be feared absolutely, driven out if possible, even killed if circumstances allow. Reyism has become an acceptable offshoot of the Church founded on these principles, preying on fear and hatred. 

Morse has at best only contempt for it. If he were to be afraid, he would have to be equally afraid of himself. There may be a wolf in front of him, but what he sees is Pamela Walters, no more, no less. 

She turns her head to stare mournfully over her shoulder at him. Then she stands and pads into the bedroom. He follows, uncertain; she jumps easily up to the bed where she lies down, her head resting on her paws, watching him with still-blue eyes – Pamela’s eyes. 

“I don’t know what you want,” he says, hesitantly. She lowers her muzzle and pulls at the collar of her blouse, very tight now against her heavy pelt. He stares, feeling himself beginning to blush – she’s still a woman, despite her shape at the moment, and the idea of undressing her... “I think I should call your sister.” 

She gives a low whine, but he backs out of the room and stumbles around to look for the phone. He finds it on the sideboard, and an address book with the number of Sloan House in the drawer under it. He also finds in the drawer a pistol and a very small box of bullets.

\------------------------------------------------

He waits around for the Sloans too long, and is still there when Thursday turns up – caught red-handed working the case he was just thrown off of. The inspector reads him the riot act in full detail right there on the kerb when he mentions the gun, too furious to listen to a word of Morse’s explanation. Drop the case, or I’ll drop you, in near as many words. 

Half an hour later, they arrest Pamela Walters. Motive, means, opportunity. Thank you, Endeavour Morse.

\------------------------------------------------

“You won’t get a match.”

It’s late, the CID office empty except for the two of them, and Jakes is a slow cataloguer. Morse can barely suppress the urge to rip the tags out of his hands and do the work himself, but he’s supposed to be feigning disinterest. More or less. 

Jakes rolls his eyes. “How ‘bout we let Ballistics do their job?” He finishes the tag for the pistol, handwriting painstakingly neat. 

Morse sits down at his desk, opening a drawer just to shut it again. “She steals things; I’ve seen her. _La Gazza Ladra_ , the family’s pet name for her as a child – the thieving magpie. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Jakes crosses over to the evidence desk, placing the gun with the rest of the items collected from the crime scenes and Pamela Walters’ flat. “It means she’s going away for life.” He turns back, leaning against the desk. “No alibi Morse. For Cartwright or the night Monkford died. The old man’s sweating her now.”

“Well make sure he takes a look at her wrists then. Unless I’m much mistaken she’s already tried to take her life once. I imagine she took the gun intending to try again. It’s called ‘Reasonable Doubt.’”

“Shoot herself? A bloody werewolf? You’re balmy.”

Morse makes a sound of irritation. “Why d’you think she only had a box of six bullets? Or didn’t you bother to check inside before sending them to Ballistics?” 

Jakes’ eyebrows shoot up. “Silver?” he asks, incredulously. 

Morse is tempted to reply that they’ll have to wait for Ballistics, but shrugs instead. “So I’d’ve said.”

“Go on; where would she ever get the money?” 

“It’s plate, probably.” Silver-plated is undoubtedly cheaper than the purer silver alloys manufactured to retain the hardness required of munitions, but nevertheless still silver and with the accompanying price. “Perhaps she didn’t buy them,” he allows, sighing, when Jakes refuses to drop his skeptical stare. 

Jakes shoves himself away from the desk, shaking his head. “Don’t know what you see in her, Morse. Pity’s one thing; riding for a fall’s another. No bit of tail’s worth that.” He saunters out past Morse’s desk, grinning at his pun. Morse glares at his back all the way out of the office. 

As soon as he’s gone, Morse is over at the evidence desk, going through the new items.

\------------------------------------------------

It’s a combination of research, luck and intuition that solve the crime – the papers and Somerset House reveal the truth about Pamela Walters’ affair with Dr Cartwright; the coins recovered from the gas meter thefts reveal Monkford’s connection with Godstone, and Morse’s own certainty that Monkford left him a message revealing the killer is enough to produce it in the hymn numbers at the church. 

“I told you she didn’t do it,” he tells Thursday as they drive to arrest the Wallaces, Jakes driving Bright back to the station to release Pamela Walters. 

Thursday glances at him. “She had motive, means, opportunity and a history of violence, Morse. We don’t take risks with murder. It’s not enough to grant people byes because your intuition tells you they’re innocent – if you think they are, prove it. Don’t just look the other way; that will break the both of you in the long run.”

“She was set up, sir. Jakes –” 

“Sergeant Jakes did his job a damn sight better than you in this instance, as far as police work is concerned. He did everything right – by the book.”

“By the book,” repeats Morse, bitterly. Thursday shoots him a sharp look.

“Yes, constable. This isn’t a come-as-you-are. There’s room in the Force for brilliance, and even eccentricity – not to mention your own less common brand of talent – but only for those who know the rules. Learn them backwards and forwards, inside and out; if you do, you’ll get to know which you can step around and which you can’t. Keep on as you are, like a bull in a bloody china shop, and you’ll be back in uniform before you know it. Or worse.” 

Morse stares morosely out the windscreen as they pull up in front of the Radcliffe and he puts the car in park. “She needed help, sir. She didn’t get it.”

“Then learn how to do your job properly. Learn how to help.” He inclines his head, tone softening. “You’ve got more to offer than most, Morse. We both know that. You just have some rough edges to sand off. There’s no one who doesn’t.”

“Right, sir.” He sighs and opens the door. That hardly seems good enough.

\---------------------------------------------------

It’s Margaret Bell’s boyfriend, oddly enough, who tips Morse off about the Sloan’s imminent departure for the United States. Sir Edmund has accepted the Chair of Physics at Stanford, and in doing so inadvertently forces the return of his grandson to his mother to avoid charges under the Offences Against the Person Act. 

It’s raining as Pamela Walters leaves Oxford with her son in her arms, Morse putting her bags into the bus and handing her up into it. “I did love him. Frank. That’s what matters, isn’t it?” she asks him.

He nods. “It’s all that matters.” 

The door closes and the bus pulls out in a cloud of diesel, the thin rain cutting it down quickly. Morse stands in the middle of the road and watches it go, scratching absently at his forearm – it itches abominably. 

“That’s a good thing you done there, Morse,” says a familiar voice behind him. Morse turns to see Thursday crossing over from the Jag, the brim of his hat turned down low against the rain. He steps in under the umbrella and they watch the coach trundle slowly off. As it rounds the corner and disappears from sight he turns to Morse, and glances at his wrist. “What’s the matter with you? Mosquitos?” 

Morse stops scratching abruptly, suddenly aware of his actions. “No, sir. I was just – itchy.” It’s too late, though; the sleeve has already been pulled down by the combination of his raising his arm and scratching at it, revealing the reddened skin beneath. And, higher on his arm – 

“Did you go and get yourself inked?” demands Thursday, incredulously. Before Morse can answer he’s grabbed Morse’s arm, umbrella sweeping in a wild arc that nearly strikes a passing cyclist before ending with its tip near the ground. He pulls up Morse’s sleeve to reveal the irritated skin of his forearm and, imprinted permanently onto it in black ink just above where a watch would be worn, a string of writing bordered on either side by complex braided cords. Thursday stares at it closely for a minute before looking suspiciously up at Morse.

“This isn’t a seal at all, is it?” 

Morse licks his lips. “I suppose that depends, sir. Seals are supposed to keep evil out, to protect us. It does that.”

“What is that? Latin?” 

“Yes, sir.” Morse, seeing Thursday’s expectant look, obligingly reads it. “ _Fiat justitia, ruat caelum._ Let justice be done, may the heavens fall.”

Thursday raises his eyebrows, but glances at Morse’s other wrist. “And the other? I assume there is another?”

Morse quirks his lips, just slightly. “ _Sine metu aut gratia, aut pietatis captares._ Without fear or favour, affection or ill will.”

“You, Morse, are certainly one of a kind.” Thursday shakes his head. “When I said ‘Learn your trade,’ this isn’t exactly what I meant.”

“You were right though, sir. There are people – all kinds of people – who need help, and they need coppers who will give it. To do that, I need these.”

He rubs gingerly at his stinging arm. “Might as well have ones that mean something – remind me why I’m here.” _Remind me what I’m not – what I’ll never accept._

Thursday pulls in a considering breath. “Well, I suppose this calls for some kind of celebration. Fancy a pint?”

Morse winces slightly, glancing down the street. “Actually, sir, I was on my way to Court. The Gas Meter committal.”

“Oh, that’s today, is it?” Something in Thursday’s tone of innocent enquiry makes Morse look at him more closely – the inspector, he suspects, knew all along. He’ll never know, so he simply nods. 

“Mm. Going to help Strange make sure the papers are in order.”

Thursday gives him an approving look. “Police work. Well, I’ll see you back at the nick then.” He turns and makes for the car.

Morse begins to raise the umbrella, and realises that the rain has stopped. He folds it up, and starts down the road towards the court.


	4. old secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse investigates the seedy underbelly of the occult in Oxford, only to end up in more familiar territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RL completely wiped the floor with me in January; hoping things will be a bit more stable, but updates may be a bit slower in coming. Hard to say.

Morse is trying to unbend the sticking S key on his typewriter when he hears a quick rap on the wooden doorframe behind him. He glances up to see Thursday standing there, eyebrows raised questioningly. “Free?”

Morse stands, abandoning the machine gratefully, and follows his superior into his office.

Although his return to general duties has rendered Morse essentially the CID’s communal resource, available for any more senior officer to dump work on – meaning, everybody – Thursday holds final seniority in the department under Bright. Consequently, where any other DC who had been given a position as bagman and been sent down after only a month would likely have become the department’s workhorse and snowed under a pile of all the worst tasks in the CID, he’s been sheltered by his connection with Thursday. His work, although mostly tedious and relatively trivial, is both fair and manageable. 

Thursday himself rarely steps in to assign tasks – Jakes is his bagman now, and as such rightfully his liaison with the department menials. But he makes exceptions for Morse now and again, just as he makes a point of their having lunch occasionally, and checking in pointedly on the advancement of the constable’s studying for his sergeant’s. 

Morse appreciates it, without ever being able to put the sentiment into words. Nor does Thursday seemingly expect him to.

“Just had a call from Dr DeBryn,” says Thursday, seating himself. “Something he wants looking into down the morgue. Possible thefts.”

Morse frowns, feathering his fingers through the back of his hair. “Is that really CID work, sir?” he asks, skeptically.

“From his corpses,” continues Thursday in the same level tone, calm gaze fixed on Morse. Morse feels a chill run down his spine, his hand falling away, forgotten. He swallows thickly and nods.

“Right, sir. I’ll run ‘round.” 

\--------------------------------------------------------

The basement of the Radcliffe is where the hospital locks away its most dangerous denizens. Ward 8 is nestled against the east wall, the only ward in the hospital without windows; instead it has pipes leading directly to the laundry above to flood it in case of an emergency. 

Pathology is in the south corner, accessed through a set of plain iron doors with a single lock and then a long hallway whose ceiling is inlaid with unobtrusive seals. Many of them have been pried out over the years; Morse suspects that in times gone by the hospital sealed against more than just blood-touched here. 

There are various offices leading off the hallway; Morse passes them without much notice. At the end is his destination: the large suite comprising the autopsy room, the hospital morgue, and the pathologist’s adjoining office beyond.

The doors at the end of the hall are solid iron with a lock not just in the centre of the double doors but at both the top and bottom – on the inside and the outside. The space was clearly designed by those with a firm understanding that while it could be vital to keep evil out, it might be just as vital to keep it locked in. 

Morse pushes them open and shivers at the cold breeze that sweeps over his neck. The large white-tiled autopsy room is empty, a metal gurney lying unoccupied in its centre. Morse sighs softly, relaxing unconsciously-accrued tension, and heads to the left towards the wooden door leading to DeBryn’s office. 

The doctor looks up when he knocks, his expression lightening as he recognizes Morse. “Ah, Morse. Good.” He stands, closing the file he was reading. He comes around his desk and shoos Morse out of his office, closing and locking the door behind him. “I wouldn’t usually,” he explains fussily, “but who knows what’s safe at the moment?” 

“Inspector Thursday said you reported some potential thefts from your corpses, doctor?” says Morse, looking for clarity. DeBryn nods, leading the way across the autopsy room, shoes clicking on the tile.

“Quite right. Two hearts, a liver, three kidneys, and some amount of blood – I can’t be exact there,” says DeBryn, giving his list matter-of-factly, as though discussing stolen medical equipment. 

He reaches a door on the other side of the autopsy room, pulls a key from his coat pocket, and unlocks it. The space beyond is entirely black, and as he steps in he flicks a switch. With a quiet hum the overhead fluorescent lights flicker to life to reveal a small room devoid of furniture, decorations or windows. Currently all it holds is two gurneys, each carrying a long form covered in a sheet. Morse swallows, stomach turning suddenly, a cold sweat breaking out under his shirt. 

“I only noticed this morning when the undertakers came to fetch one of them,” he waves towards the bodies, “I happened to be going by as they were wrapping him up, and I noticed some sloppiness with the stitching. Given that I had done it myself, I considered that odd. So I refused to sign for his release – for which I’ve had at least three livid calls so far – and had a rummage. Where upon I discovered his missing heart, liver and kidney. I checked my only other corpus, and found another missing heart and two kidneys. Also, as I say, some blood from both. How many previous corpses have been raided, I don’t dare guess – you would have to get exhumation orders.” He glances at Morse, tilting his head owl-like.

Morse knows the doctor is staring at him, but he can’t seem to turn away from the corpses. There’s no latent emotion in the morgue – none in the whole Pathology department – just the ambient cold to keep the bodies from decomposing too quickly. It’s entirely his over-active imagination projecting the boiling sea of emotion in the corpses that feels about to race across the intervening space to drown him. He fists his hands against the self-induced queasiness, the tiny pinpricks of his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms distracting him from his clammy skin and the oily twisting in his gut. 

“How many people would have the knowledge necessary to do this?” asks Morse, staring at the wall. 

“Well, any grave-robber, I should think. It wouldn’t be difficult for them; the organs had been removed for weighing and examination previously, and usually you just put in a few sutures here and there to hold things together internally once they’re returned – it’s not as though it needs to stand up to much strain.” 

Morse pulls a hand under his collar, trying to loosen it. It’s damp with sweat, already limp and hanging over the tie. “I thought you used some kind of acid solution to deter this – damage the organs too much to sell.”

DeBryn gives him a peevish look. “Yes, pathologists used to up until after the War. These days though, with moon-touched starting to integrate into society and people feeling safer, they have more time to feel indignant about poor old Uncle Fred being pumped full of prussic acid. Never mind what the embalmer’s pumping him full of – as though that were wholesome and natural. But no one ever objects to that.” He looks more closely at Morse. “You’re looking rather off, aren’t you? Come along.”

He ushers Morse out of the morgue, shutting the door behind him, and back across the autopsy room. It’s not much warmer out here, but Morse can feel the chill fading, falling away from him to be left behind like mist rolling off a block of dry ice. By the time he reaches DeBryn’s office he feels nearly himself again, pulling out his notepad as the doctor seats himself behind his desk.

The last time he was here, brought in unconscious after reading Mary Tremlett, he hadn’t been in any state to take in the space around him other than as a perfectly plain office. From where he’s standing now he can see why it would have struck him as such: facing the door there’s the usual solid desk which like most hospital furniture looks as though it’s been through several administrations, a pair of mismatched chairs for guests, a grey filing cabinet, the requisite framed degrees on the wall accompanied by some rather nice little oil paintings, and an ancient and shaggy sofa which has been shoved at a slight angle in the remaining space to the left of the door, its awkward proportions too long to fit squarely between the walls.

What he hadn’t noticed before, for the perfectly obvious reason that it had been behind him, is the large bookcase spanning the wall over the sofa crammed tight with books. Unlike the shelves of some professional men, it’s clear that these have been collected purposefully by someone interested in their contents rather than their appearance. No two match – there are no impressive rows of leather-bound or cloth-bound volumes – instead a thick manuscript bound in stained, spotting leather sits beside a tiny ring-bound volume that might almost be a cook-book, next to a short squat book that resembles a bible. Morse blinks at the bizarre display for a moment before turning back to DeBryn, pulling his mind back to the reason for his visit. 

“Who would have access to the morgue, doctor? Especially during times when no one else might be here?”

DeBryn nods. “I’ve been thinking about that. The most obvious time, of course, would be after hours. The janitorial staff have access to the main autopsy theatre, but not my office or the morgue – they do my office when I’m here, and the morgue when one of the other staff members in Pathology or I let them in. Only the staff here have keys to the morgue, or I’m sure members of the hospital administration of course, not that they ever come down here. But…” He cocks his head to the side. 

Morse gives him an interrogative look.

“Well, if someone were enough of a blackguard to be stealing organs for sale in blood rites, I doubt the morgue lock would give them too much pause. It’s meant to be rather a good one, but it’s certainly not an uncrackable combination lock or anything of that type.” 

Morse sighs. “Can you give me a list?”

“Of the medical staff, certainly. Janitorial staff, you’ll need to speak to the administrative staff regarding the Housekeeping ledgers,” replies DeBryn. 

“Thank you. I’ll call by for it later.” Morse nods to DeBryn, and with the feeling of a man who has been holding his breath too long makes his way out of Pathology, up the stairs to the main entrance, and out into the brisk autumn air. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

Chopin’s Tristesse is on the radio. Morse sits in the Jaguar with the engine idling waiting for the final sorrowful chords to finish as he stares up at the imposing walls of King’s College. Wilde may have mourned over tragedies not his own, but to Morse the music speaks of real memories, of six stone tombs and five bodies. 

Only when the piano falls silent does he switch off the engine, the car suddenly quiet but for the light patter of rain on the roof. He gives a frustrated sigh and slams the door open, forcing himself out and on into college without looking back.

The porter directs him to an office on the third floor of the deWitt building – a remarkably bland name for the home of some of Oxford’s most powerful blood mages. The first two floors, Morse guesses from the notices and posters pinned up on cork boards, are used by the Humanities – Greats on the ground floor, and Philosophy on the second. By most standards of elegant design and subdued opulence, the first two hallways would rate highly – especially compared to those employed by Cowley Station, where peeling linoleum floors and collapsible tin chairs make up a significant portion of the landscape afforded to visitors. 

But when he steps off the staircase on the third floor, Morse finds instead the mysticism and pageantry he had been expecting. And even so, he feels himself shiver. 

The entirety of the corridor’s ceiling is covered in a huge, fine web of black thread – thousands and thousands of strings criss-crossing in intricate patterns that whirl and shift like waves as he walks. Every thread has been hung with tiny silver bells, more than a hundred thousand, Morse guesses, all hanging silently, shining in the light cast by the lamps which line the long hallway. 

There had been one in Lonsdale, although he’d never seen it – the students reading Rites and Rituals had talked about it in awe in their first year, until the shine wore off. Morse can’t remember the proper name for it now; mostly they had just called it the Banshee. “If you hear it, you’re going to die,” he can remember one of them saying, half-scared, half-amazed. What it is it does he doesn’t remember either – detects something going horribly wrong, and looks impressive, is his impression. 

Each of the wooden doorframes has had seals carved all the way around it – most have had the insides painted white, but a few have been done in black, and one rather shocking example is bright purple. Some twisted and monstrous statues have been mounted on plinths or simply on the floor: distorted human figures, wild snarling beasts, depictions of rare blood-touched. 

Next to all this, the cork notice-boards with papers pinned up about faculty meetings and JCR elections seem incredibly banal. 

Morse reaches room 308, bordered by white seals, none of which he recognizes. The plaque on the door, however, bears a familiar name. Dr Thomas Porter. Morse squares his shoulders and knocks.

“Come in!” 

Morse opens the door and enters into a large study smelling of lavender and beeswax. Half of the space, that nearer the door, has been dedicated to an empty floor surrounded by a beaten iron circle ringed on the outside with inlaid metal runes – possibly silver. The other half is taken up with a desk and chair, while both of the side walls are lined with bookcases. Dried bunches of lavender have been hung from the ceiling, wrapped in various colours of ribbon. 

Seated behind the desk is a middle-aged man with a cheerful face, a portly build and a rather careless manner of dress. Dr Porter: Professor Emeritus of Blood Rites, the OCP’s police consultant on the subject, and the man who nine months ago saved Morse’s life. 

Porter’s face brightens as he recognizes Morse; he stands and comes around his desk to shake hands. “Constable Morse – a pleasure. What brings you back to Oxford?” His emotions mimic his expression: interest, enthusiasm. It’s tempered, as he shakes Morse’s hand, by a growing sting of surprise. 

Morse blinks, but pulls together a smile in return. “I’m sorry – I ought to have told you, professor. I’ve taken a position here with the Oxford CID.”

Porter retakes his seat, and motions for Morse to do the same. “An interesting choice. But I suppose it is home to your Alma Mater. What can I help you with? I presume, from your apology, you didn’t come to chat?” he adds, eyes twinkling. 

Morse shakes his head, a ghost of his smile still remaining. “No, sir. It’s in regards to blood rites and the underground sale and purchase of illegal materials – human remains. If someone were seeking to sell, where would they go?”

Porter leans back in his chair, giving him an appraising look. “I expect your Vice squad would have a better idea than I of the specifics, or at least than I have without making enquiries.”

“Broadly, then,” says Morse. 

Porter weaves his fingers together, taking on a lecturing aspect. “They would go to the night market – I say the, but of course they are ubiquitous; most urban centres develop one sooner or later. They usually set up a couple of times a month, and never convene in the same location twice. Sometimes it’s held outside, sometimes in a condemned building, or in the catacombs. Everything sold there is illegal for one reason or another, but some markets have a reputation for selling blacker goods than others – Oxford has never been extreme.”

“Are you saying someone looking to sell human remains would go elsewhere?”

Porter gives him an old look. “Although to ransack a corpse is certainly a heinous crime and human organs are among the more common of the highly illegal components in blood rites, sadly there are many far more atrocious goods which are sought after.” Porter doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to: he’s looking at one. Sacrifices are necessary in all rites, although often only of pure elements or small animals. The most complex and darkest of the blood rites, however, require human life, and Morse suddenly wonders whether that too is bought and sold at the night market. 

“I’ll speak to Vice,” says Morse, shifting in his chair, “but it would be helpful if you could try to find out when and where the night market will be held.”

Porter nods. “I can’t make any guarantees – obviously no members of the University attend it. But I have many contacts; I’ll make some discreet enquiries.”

Morse makes to stand, and Porter raises his hand, wrinkled skin dry with chalk. “There is perhaps one other matter,” he says politely; Morse retakes his seat. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how have you been feeling since January? Any different in yourself?” His tone is light, but his milky eyes are intent. 

“No; I feel fine,” replies Morse flatly. “Why?”

Porter sighs, the line of his mouth lengthening as he thinks. Finally he starts. “Rites aren’t efficient things. They’re like an engine; while the ultimate purpose is achieved – say running a car – a great deal of surplus energy is lost in the generation of heat and noise and so on. The ultimate purpose of any rite is achieved if all the components are prepared and put together correctly, but a great deal of surplus power is lost in the process of bringing about the goal. I say lost, but in fact much of it ends up in the original components of the rite.”

Morse rubs at his ear. “I’m not entirely sure I’m following you.”

Porter leans forwards and rests his fists on his desk, speaking more clearly. “Anything that’s part of a complex rite ends up with surplus magic stored up in it. The more complex or powerful the rite, the more magic is imbued. You were part of two complex rites, and in the intervening time were kept alive by a third.” He lays his hands flat on the desk, meeting Morse’s eyes squarely. “All this has left a very significant reserve of magic behind; it was apparent the moment I shook hands with you.”

Morse’s throat tightens, his heartbeat suddenly thrumming in his ears, his fingers twisting around the chair’s armrests. He remembers the dizzying light-headedness of his consciousness being stolen from him, can almost hear the far-off roaring in his ears – no, that’s just his imagination. Lescault is dead, the compass ruined, and that’s the end of it. 

“I don’t know what that means,” he says, tersely. 

“Well, if you’ve felt no ill effects by now, probably nothing. Most likely the magic accumulated so gradually that you became accustomed to its presence without noticing. It’s simply part of you now.”

Morse stands abruptly, shoving away his chair with a screech. “I don’t _want_ it to be part of me. Can’t you drain it out – remove it?” he demands, pulling his fingers over his chest as though he might be able to feel something there – a tinge of this unnatural, eldritch curse Lescault’s left him.

“Not easily. Or rather – not easily without risk to yourself. Given how well you’ve taken to it, you’ve obviously come to integrate it into your own inherent rhythms and pulses; we all have them, although generally only a few of us learn to recognize and draw on them. Removing it could be dangerous, could cause a collapse of your own system.” Porter shakes his head. “Much better to leave it; it’s doing no harm. You may find someday that you begin to notice it – augmenting your senses, or interacting with intensive seals. It won’t do any harm, just something to be aware of.” 

Morse gives him a distressed look; Porter smiles gently. “Cheer up, constable. This is a gift, not a curse – most blood mages would give an arm or leg for such an opportunity. Or, to look at it another way,” he continues, seeing Morse’s deepening frown, “If I hadn’t’ve told you, you would never have noticed it – odds are you never will.”

“I can’t say I find that very comforting,” says Morse. He sighs, standing stiffly, the muscles of his chest and back tight, arms held close to his sides. “Thank you for your time.” Porter nods.

“Certainly. I will let you know if I find anything for you.”

Morse sees himself out, glancing up at the bells suspended overhead as he leaves; they seem to glint maliciously in their spiderous web. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

“You want to go raid the night market,” says Thursday flatly, putting down his pen and the form he’d been filling out when Morse entered and giving Morse a long-suffering look. 

“Not raid, sir,” corrects Morse quickly, bouncing slightly on his toes. “Just attend. With an eye to seeing whether anyone’s selling what we’re looking for.”

“And if they are?” probes Thursday. “You’re going to announce yourself as a copper and arrest them in front of a hundred other people conducting illegal business, most of whom are either touched or have the Devil standing in their shadow? Morse, Vice plans raids on the market for weeks, and goes in loaded for bear.”

“All I have to do is get a look at him, sir. If he works at the hospital, which he must, I can recognize him again later.”

“And if he’s handing the stuff off to a middle-man to sell?” 

Morse sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “There aren’t really very many options, sir. I’ve had the list off Dr DeBryn of the staff with keys to the morgue –unsurprisingly none of them have any criminal records. I also was able to obtain the list of janitorial staff working in the Pathology department from the hospital administration; only one of the five has any priors, and it’s for domestic assault. It doesn’t leave very much to go on, sir, especially as we’re not sure when this all started. Dr Porter and Vice’s information agrees – they think there’s going to be a market the night after next down on Christ Church Meadow.”

“Full moon, is it?” asks Thursday, sourly. Morse smiles just a little.

“No, sir. Would it help if I promise not to do anything rash?” he asks, hopefully.

“Oh, I know you’re not going to,” says Thursday, with a kind of tired resignation. “Having your DI looking over your shoulder usually has that effect.” 

\------------------------------------------------------

Morse waits for Thursday three streets over from the edge of the Christ Church Meadow on Wednesday night after nightfall in an outfit scrounged for him by Strange – blue jeans, a turtleneck, a black leather jacket that reeks of cigarette smoke, and a pair of ancient boots that are too big for him. Tucked in safely under the turtleneck is both the one piece of jewelry and the one piece of silver he possesses – a silver necklace inherited from his mother. He’s only worn it a handful of times, mostly full moons when he had no choice but to be out at night. It’s a simple thin chain with a beaten-silver coin-shaped pendant; one side is unadorned except for the rough pattern of the silver, the other is smoother and bears the brief inscription _1 Peter 2:9._

His confidence – or perhaps his ego – takes a blow when Thursday shows up in a plain short raincoat and slacks and a newsboy cap, and nearly gives an undignified snort at first sight of Morse. He shakes his head before sobering up and pulling out an alarmingly large knife in a leather sheath. “Iron with silver at the edge. Put it in your boot.”

Morse takes it reluctantly. “I’ll break my ankle, like as not,” he mutters, shoving it in alongside the two pairs of socks he’s wearing. 

“As long as you don’t take a roll on it you’ll be fine.” Thursday watches him test his weight, and nods. “Right. Don’t touch anything, don’t buy anything, and whatever you do don’t let on you’re a copper.”

They stump off across the meadow, ground muddy and porous from the early fall rain. There aren’t any lights on the common, and although they both have torches they don’t dare use them – no one going to the night market would bring attention to it. But the clouds are thin tonight and the half-full moon provides enough light for them to make their way to the south-eastern corner.

Nestled in under the towering poplars between the Cherwell and the Thames and surrounded by the water’s constant soft trickle is Oxford’s night market. Dim phosphorous lamps have been propped up against bushes and tree trunks, carefully positioned to be out of the sight lines of anyone but those in the immediate vicinity. By their sickly green glow, Morse can just barely see the strange haphazard marketplace that’s been arranged.

For some reason he had been imagining something along the lines of an Eastern bazaar with flags and music and tables full of colourful and illegal wares – something out of _Thousand and One Nights_. The reality of it is much grittier, and much more sensible. Shadowy men standing behind collapsible tables or boxes, or simply milling around, speaking in rough voices to their clientele. 

Very little is displayed openly – just some amulets, some stone phials, and a few talismans. Behind most tables there are suitcases or boxes; some men have moored punts or small rowboats and brought their goods in them. But there is none of the grisly, malevolent – perhaps even prurient – aspect that he was expecting. No rows of blood-stained weapons, deformed animals, jars of virgin’s blood or infants’ teeth, or vampires offering their services – but most importantly no mortal remains. At least, not in the open.

Mostly, he realises, the market is where people come to meet people – and probably people they already know or have introductions to. 

He lets out his breath slowly and looks around, trying to settle on who to approach. His mind is made up for him abruptly by Thursday, who bumps into him from behind, pushing him forward towards a grey-haired man in a dirty tweed coat and woollen gloves with the fingers cut out. He has no table, just a pair of suitcases, and looks Morse up and down with an unimpressed eye. 

“What d’you want, then?” he asks, spitting out a piece of tobacco. 

“Do you sell for blood rites?” asks Morse, trying to sound casual and hearing only the terseness in his voice. He realises that Thursday has evaporated from behind him, either to look into other sellers or to reduce his conspicuousness. 

“Sometimes. What is it you’re looking for?”

Morse has been thinking about this – about what he could reasonably ask for without sounding a complete pratt, and what he could equally stand to examine. “Dead man’s blood,” he says, hands in his pockets, elbows pressed tightly against himself. 

The grey-haired man snorts. “College courses growing a wee bit too tame for you, then? Lads like you are ten a penny ‘round here.”

Morse bristles. “I can pay.” 

“I don’t doubt it – your sort like their expensive pleasures. But you’re out of luck. There’s nothing out of the graveyard here tonight.”

Morse looks around at the dozen or so other men with illegal goods to unload. “Surely someone must have –” 

“ _Surely_ they haven’t. Now piss off. You won’t find what you’re looking for; come back next month. Or go elsewhere; you can pay,” the black marketeer taunts, leering.

Morse snarls and turns away, walking off along the crooked line of merchants, most in low conversation with potential clients. He tries to overhear conversations, hoping against hope he might make out something useful, but everything is either entirely mundane or extremely cryptic. 

He tries his luck with another couple of men, one of whom doesn’t deal in human remains and the other of whom gives him the same answer as the first man. 

He drifts through the thin crowd for another several minutes before he finds Thursday again, or rather before Thursday finds him. A heavy hand drops down on his shoulder from behind and he swivels around; in the poor light he can only make out the angles of Thursday’s cheek and jaw, and the brim of his cap. He makes an unintelligible noise somewhere between fright and relief low in his throat. 

“Had enough?” asks Thursday, sounding amused.

Morse feels a churlish desire to say no – he’s been mocked at every turn, his feet hurt, they haven’t found anything, he’s wasted his evening for nothing, and it’s all ended up being exactly as useful as Thursday expected. But staying any longer will just be a bigger waste of time.

“Alright,” he grumbles, swallowing the _sir._ They slip out of the group and off across the wet grass towards town. He waits until they’re most of the way there and he can see they’re alone on the meadow before speaking. “I assume you didn’t find anything, sir?”

Thursday’s walking briskly with his hands in his pockets, glancing around watchfully from time to time. “They all told the same story: nothing for sale. Either it was true, or they didn’t like the looks of us. Hard to know which.” 

They reach the road and firm pavement beneath their feet. “The last bus’ll have gone by now,” says Thursday, glancing at his watch by the light of a streetlamp. “You drive me back, then keep the car overnight. Right?”

“Thank you, sir.”

\----------------------------------------------------

Morse is at his desk the next morning fending off sarcastic questions from Jakes when a call comes through with DeBryn’s dry voice at the other end. 

“I was wondering, Morse, what kind of progress you could be said to have made,” says DeBryn.

“As of this moment, not a huge deal,” admits Morse, looking at the lists of potential suspects supplied by DeBryn and the hospital, each as likely as the next to be his culprit as far as he knows. “Why?”

“Because I’ve just had an autopsy scheduled for this afternoon. I can’t very well perform it in good conscience if I suspect half the poor sod’s mortal remains are going to be nicked the moment I turn my back,” shoots back DeBryn snarkily. 

Morse blinks, paused in the middle of scratching his head with the rubber-end of his pencil. “Autopsy? There haven’t been any sudden deaths reported.”

“Yes, very good. Not everyone who dies in the city actually passes away of violent causes, though. It was a hospital death following surgery; the responsible physicians want a verification that there wasn’t any suggestion of malpractice. What do you suggest – should we transfer the corpse and perform the post-mortem somewhere else?” 

Morse inhales slowly, looking at the lists on his desk. “Have you told anyone about this? Any of your colleagues I mean?”

“No. I thought it best not to spread rumours ahead of the investigation. Once the cat’s out of the bag it’s remarkably hard to put it back.”

“And I only told the secretary that we were investigating the possible theft of goods from your department. So as far as we know, there’s no reason anyone should have gotten the wind up.” Morse sits up, glancing at his watch and making some quick notes. “I think you should perform the autopsy, doctor. And then what I think you should do is…”

\--------------------------------------------------------

The sun is setting as DeBryn makes his way across the car park, suitcase, keys and raincoat in hand. He fumbles with his unwieldly load as he gets to the car, nearly dropping the suitcase, catching it, and then dropping the keys. He stoops, picks them up, unlocks his car and gets in. A moment later the Morris grudgingly turns over and he pulls out of the lot. 

Morse, Thursday and Jakes sit in the Jag for a few minutes before getting out. On the ground where the Morris was parked a keychain is lying in the gravel with three carefully labelled keys. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

The Pathology department is dark and silent, a 9-5 business with the staff gone home for the night. They unlock the doors and re-lock them with DeBryn’s keys, letting themselves into his office last of all and closing the door behind them. There they close the curtain in the partially-sunken window, but leave the window in the door to the autopsy room unobstructed. 

They’ve brought a small dark lantern with them; Thursday sets it on the pathologist’s desk and lights it, leaving the screen open. It casts much less light than the overhead light; certain not to be seen from outside or the autopsy room, even if they get careless. 

Jakes and Morse move the two interview chairs to sit at a much broader angle, still facing the centre of the room but now easily exited towards the door. Thursday takes a seat on the sofa.

“Doesn’t half like to read. What are all of these?” Jakes stares up at the shelves of books, bringing the lantern over. Morse, sitting in the nearer chair, turns to look as well, curious. The sergeant leans over to peer at the volumes on Thursday’s far side. Many have no title on their spines, but Jakes is able to ferret out some which do. “ _Anatomical features of European Moon-Touched. Habits and Hallmarks of Revenants. Distinguishing the Clawmarks of the Bipedal Humanoids: Some Collected Notes._ Better him than me.” Jakes makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. 

“Thank you, sergeant. Perhaps you could check the morgue is secure,” says Thursday, in a tone which is not a suggestion. Jakes straightens, the lantern’s light flickering on the walls, and then snatches up the keys from the desk and marches smartly out. In the inky darkness of the office, Morse stares up at the bookcase he can no longer see. He slips his hand into his pocket and feels the cool, smooth touch of the silver chain lying coiled there. Likely as not somewhere in the shelf above there’s a book titled _Genetic Traits of Sun-Touched_ or _Reproduction in Empaths: A Dissertation._ He shudders. 

“He’s a good man, DeBryn,” says Thursday, softly. “His interest in mainly professional; it’s necessary in his line of work, and it’s been helpful more than once.”

“Mainly?” picks out Morse, now turning to watch the yellow glow of the lantern on the other side of the autopsy chamber, bobbing as Jakes fiddles with the lock.

“You can ask him how he came to be a pathologist, if you care to. All you really need to know is that you can trust him – for you, a good thing. If you don’t have a GP in town you might consider confiding in him. It can be useful to have a doctor you can turn to.”

“I’ve said before,” begins Morse, shortly, feeling the heat beginning to rise under his skin at the idea of divulging his secret – at the fact that Thursday is urging him to. Across the room Jakes closes the morgue door and turns back, crossing the tiled floor in quick steps. Morse sits back in his chair, closing his eyes and willing his breathing to slow; he tries to turn his mind to another subject – focuses on the recording of _The Tales of Hoffmann_ he finally received from London last week. He can’t really concentrate on it in these circumstances, but it’s enough to distract him from the other anxieties of the moment. 

They make themselves comfortable in the dimly-lit office, Thursday and Jakes striking up what seems to Morse to be an intensely boring conversation about football in low tones. There’s just barely enough light to read by and Morse’s keen eyes have already noticed the discarded newspaper in the WPB; he fishes it out. He didn’t have time to do the crossword earlier. 

Time trickles by like glue. The Thursday crossword setter is easily the least challenging of the week; Morse pencils in the grids without attention or interest, drearily aware that the sooner he finishes the sooner he’ll be left with nothing to do. Thursday and Jakes move on to snooker, from Morse’s perspective no better than football. He starts writing slower.

\----------------------------------------------------------

It’s gone eleven before anything happens. Morse finished the crossword hours ago, and even inane conversation has long since died out. 

Morse is beginning to worry that he might fall asleep, uncomfortable though his chair is, when there’s a quiet scratching of metal on metal from beyond the office door. He sits up, Thursday and Jakes doing the same, and reaches out to slip the screen down over the lantern. The office goes black. 

A bright streak cuts through the darkness of the autopsy room – the light of an electric torch. They wait for a moment, but the overhead lights don’t turn on. The heavy iron doors close with a low thump, and then there’s the click of shoes on tile. The light slices its way across the autopsy room towards the morgue. It pauses there for nearly a minute, holding with the same fumbling bob as Jakes before with the lantern. Eventually, though, the torch goes dark for a moment, and then is replaced by a long vertical shaft of light – the morgue’s overhead fluorescents. 

“Alright,” mutters Thursday. There’s a soft shift of fabric, and the cool breeze from the autopsy room drifts in as he opens the door to DeBryn’s office. 

The three of them cut across the empty space between the office and the morgue as though there were no time filling it. Jakes reaches the door first and wrenches it open, stepping immediately to the side to free the doorway. Thursday and Morse follow, Morse with the silver necklace wrapped around his knuckles tightly, mouth dry. 

Standing beside the metal gurney holding the sheeted corpse is a young woman with thick, curly red hair and vivid green eyes. She looks up at them in shock. Her eyes seem to grow more intensely green as she stares at them – the blazing green of emeralds struck by the sun. And then she begins to open her mouth. 

And Morse, very suddenly, finds the image of a ceiling strung with tiny silver bells coming crashing into his mind. 

He steps sharply across the intervening space, unwinding the necklace from around his knuckles, and slips it around her neck even as she tries to back away. “Don’t scream,” he grits out, turning her away from them to face the wall before she can. She gasps, clutching at the chain; the silver is already burning her fair skin. He can feel her horror and her fear, heavy and violent as an avalanche crashing down on him; he closes his eyes against it and forces himself to hold on. Banshees can crush bone easily with their screams, not to mention the softer tissues; in a small cement-lined tiled room like this she could kill all of them with just one cry. 

Thursday appears at his side with handcuffs and pulls her arms around behind her back to restrain her. Only then does Morse let the necklace fall away, backing away and stumbling into Jakes before finding his balance. The woman collapses against the wall, panting for breath, weakened by the silver.

“Right,” says Thursday calmly after a moment, glancing behind him and apparently finding both his subordinates frozen in shock. “We’ll stay here; Jakes, run and fetch the mask from the car. Morse, you keep that chain handy.”

Jakes must actually run; he’s back in hardly more than a minute with the mask used for prisoners who carry the threat of lethal bites. Made from steel, it fits over the chin and jaw, coming up to under the nose with 1/8” holes for ventilation and speech. The chain straps are also steel, padded with cloth.

“Not built for banshees,” says Thursday matter-of-factly as he slips it on, “But it will throw the sound wave back directly on your jaw, so I don’t advise you to try it, miss.”

They walk her out slowly with Thursday on one side and Jakes on the other, Morse locking the doors carefully behind them. 

“Can’t believe the hospital was daft enough to hire a banshee to clean the morgue,” says Jakes. Beside him the woman shivers, but says nothing. 

Morse shakes his head, partially at the statement, partially at Jakes. “They didn’t. All the Pathology department’s janitorial staff were male.”

\----------------------------------------------------------

“Eva Carnagan,” says DeBryn the next morning as he pulls back the sheet on his corpse to check everything is intact. Morse stands in the corner by the door, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the opposite wall. He only came to return the doctor’s keys, yet somehow here he is again, feeling his skin trying to peel itself free from his bones. “Only been with us six months. She is completing a doctorate in toxicology through Magdalene College. At least, I know of no other young, red-haired green-eyed staff members.”

“But – why?” asks Morse, frowning. “Surely she could expect a good income?”

“A decent one, yes, when she completed her training. But she would have her school fees to pay – ten years of schooling doesn’t come cheap.” He finishes his inspection and refolds the sheet, turning to wait for Morse to precede him out of the morgue; Morse does so gladly. “In any case, we aren’t sure that she was in fact selling her haul. The discovery that she is a banshee opens a new and disturbing possibility.”

They’ve crossed the wide autopsy chamber, and DeBryn leads the way into his office, taking a seat in his chair. Morse stands, forcing himself not to look at the bookshelves to his left. “Namely?”

“As you probably know, banshees derive strength and vitality from the grief of individuals who have recently suffered bereavement – the choice to work in close proximity to a hospital morgue was doubtless a good one for that reason. She certainly has a bright intellect, and could have done well in the field. However, I also believe that in cases where sufficient energy is not obtained through proximity to the emotionally wounded, banshees may be required to supplement their diet with a closer taste of death.” 

Morse feels a sharp wave of queasiness rising, mouth suddenly full of saliva as he tastes bile at the back of his throat. He represses the sudden nausea forcefully, taking quick shallow breaths and refusing to allow the first hint of a spasm from his stomach. “You mean – she…”

DeBryn raises his eyebrows. “Consumed them? Well, I have no proof of course, but it’s entirely possible. Certainly she has been under considerable stress lately – she has been struggling with the burden of her duties here and a paper she was working on with some of the college toxicologists as the final push for her degree. Perhaps emotion alone ceased to be enough to sustain her under those conditions. A review of her financial accounts would shed light on the alternative, presumably.” 

Morse sits down abruptly, legs suddenly shaky. “We found nothing at the night market,” he says, wiping a hand across his clammy face. “I assumed it was because they didn’t want to sell to us, but if this is true then it could very well have been that there was nothing to sell.”

DeBryn shrugs. “It’s entirely possible.”

“You’re very knowledgeable in this subject,” says Morse slowly. 

“I take an interest in the occult,” replies DeBryn. Morse can no longer keep from looking at the shelves; his neck is already aching with the effort of not turning. 

“Yes. A hobby?” he asks, looking at the books. 

“I suppose I think of it more as a duty,” says DeBryn, thoughtfully. Morse tenses, feeling his shoulders beginning to rise as his fingers begin to curl inwards. 

“In what sense?” he tries to keep his voice neutral, even as he reconsiders his encounters with the pathologist. Thursday may consider him someone to be trusted, but those who consider it their duty to become experts on the occult – on touched – for personal interest are in Morse’s experience rarely good news. 

DeBryn straightens, expression closing off. “Why do you ask?”

Morse, hackles rising, turns back to face DeBryn. “Because I can’t help wonder why a pathologist working in one of the safest cities in England requires hundreds of volumes on identifying people who are touched, doctor. I especially can’t help wonder it in light of the fact that Cowley Station is investigating the internal ongoing and dedicated persecution of moon-touched and sun-touched victims, criminals and complainants.” This is both impolitic and untrue, but he wants to rattle DeBryn’s cage.

To his surprise, DeBryn seems mostly unbothered by his outburst. He simply regards Morse through his glasses for a moment, and then says, “And this bothers you?”

Morse shifts angrily in his chair. “Yes!”

“Good. Me too. I wish you luck with your investigations.” He glances at the bookcases. “As for that… ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing – drink deep or taste not the Pierian stream.’ It is informed knowledge I seek, not merely producing convenient facts to manufacture scapegoats. As you say, Oxford is by the grace of the Universities and the kindness the Germans did in sparing it in the Blitz,” here he gives a sardonic little smile, “one of the safest cities in England. Certainly I believe the culprit in murders is most likely to be the domestic partner, not the nearest moon-touched. Not to say that we don’t have our own darknesses. The catacombs; the University-bred blood-mages who go wrong; the Wychwood and the Necromancer.”

Morse, having listened in surprise to DeBryn’s entirely cogent rebuttal, frowns now. “You don’t really believe in him, do you? The mad fiend living in the haunted wood? It’s a bit…” _childish_ dies on his tongue as DeBryn stares back levelly.

“I don’t think it’s a matter of believing or not. I know he exists, to my detriment.” He pulls his key ring from his pocket, produces a small key, and unlocks his desk drawers. From the bottom one he produces a non-descript cardboard box about half the height and width of a shoebox. He puts it on the desk between them and takes off the lid. 

Inside is an ornamental dagger, very old, made of what looks like iron. The handle is a much-deteriorated cloth grip, very plain. The blade, which looks extremely sharp, has been engraved with intricate sigils from tip to guard. The guard bears a repeating Celtic pattern – the eternal knot. 

Morse knows better than to touch it; he simply stares at it, then looks back to DeBryn. DeBryn, who stands and turns to look out the window behind him, pulling a finger across the sill to inspect the dust accumulation. 

“It had originally been my intention to train as a surgeon,” he begins in an easy tone, turning back around and leaning against the wall to regard Morse with a level gaze. “During the course of my final residency to obtain my medical degree, I was attacked by a former patient – a man whose life I had saved a month earlier when he suffered a cardiac arrest – armed with that dagger.” He nods at the box on the desk. Morse feels himself stiffening, eyes widening, but DeBryn goes on without notice. 

“Subsequent investigation proved that he had earlier murdered another man, a former comrade who had pulled him out from under enemy fire during the War, using the same knife. It was also determined that his infant son had been diagnosed with incurable leukemia, and had been given three months to live.” DeBryn reseats himself slowly, eyes looking into the distance for a moment. “I hadn’t realised until then just how frightening love is, simply in and of itself. Now, of course, in this line of work it seems an ordinary thought.” He shakes his head, glancing at Morse. “But of course, you’re aware of that.”

“Yes,” says Morse. He feels quite cold suddenly. DeBryn gives him a sympathetic look and continues on.

“He admitted, eventually, where he had gotten the knife, and the instructions. Much the same has happened a dozen times. The Necromancer never raises a hand – he doesn’t have to. He simply waits for the desperate, the terrified, the dying, to come to him; his reputation is great enough by now. And he finds a way to grant their wishes – at a heinous price. My patient was told his child would be cured, if he killed two people who had saved his life.” DeBryn sighs, removing his glasses and producing a handkerchief to wipe them with. 

“I was lucky – an intern stepped in before he was able to finish me off. I spent four weeks recovering. And when I was back on my feet, I realised I had to deal with the College.” DeBryn re-dons his glasses, and Morse gives him a confused look.

“The College of Physicians and Surgeons – they’re incredibly leery of any hint of the occult in their members. It turned out that they weren’t willing to weather a practicing physician of any type who had been brutally attacked by a cursed knife wielded by a man sent by a necromancer. It was represented to me that I could take a position involving research or teaching, neither of which appealed. In the end I had to fight like the dickens to be permitted to train as a pathologist. And here I am.” He glances around the dreary office in the hospital basement with its one sunken window and a perennial draught coming in from the autopsy room. Morse feels a shiver run down his spine. 

DeBryn’s eyes fall last on his bookcases and he pauses for just a moment, regarding them. “I couldn’t do anything about the Necromancer, of course, but the whole thing had tied me up in the occult whether I liked it or not. And the field is so poorly understood – so many people being persecuted unfairly, as you say, or not receiving the help they need, as Eva Carnagan likely didn’t. Whatever assistance or use I could render by increasing my knowledge of those who live on the edges of society simply seemed… something I still could do.”

He gives a tired, humourless smile and puts the lid back on the box before returning it to its locked drawer. 

Morse licks his lips, finding them dry – his tongue is, as well. He feels desiccated, shrunken, all the assumptions and anger and righteousness dried out of him leaving him a hollow shell. “I’m sorry,” he begins slowly, voice dropped low with his awkwardness and shame. 

“Not your fault; we move on,” says DeBryn straightforwardly. Morse shakes his head.

“No. I mean, yes – but. I misjudged you, and I apologize for that. People hoarding knowledge like this, it makes me... jumpy.” He tilts his head, smiling awkwardly, then pushes himself to his feet and walks over to the books. In the day with the office light on, he can see that for many of the books with no title on the spine DeBryn has provided a little slip of paper with a handwritten note; with these, it’s not difficult to make sense of the filing system. “I have no excuse, really. Inspector Thursday told me I could trust you,” he says, as he scans the shelves.

“Did he really?” asks DeBryn dryly, sounding somewhere between amused and puzzled. Morse nods absently. A moment later he finds what he’s looking for on the second shelf from the top near the door; a very thin book, perfect bound with a white cover. He pulls it out with one finger, frowning at the title.

Morse takes a breath, and then another. Then, accepting that it isn’t going to make anything better, he turns and puts the book down on DeBryn’s desk. DeBryn glances at it.

_The Physiology of the Empath._

“You have a question?” asks DeBryn, looking back up again enquiringly.

“No. I don’t need a book to answer them. I just thought… Inspector Thursday suggested…” He takes a breath, and finds the words. “Mostly secrets protect you. But occasionally they can drown you before you ever knew you were sinking, and there’s no one there to pull you out. It can be very hard to know what’s best,” he finishes, quietly. 

DeBryn sits stilly for a moment; Morse has the impression he’s thinking hard. Then: “Do you need help, Morse?” he asks, seriously.

Morse blinks. Some of the tension slips away from him involuntarily, carried away by his shock. “No. No. It just seemed a good idea to have more than one person to turn to if need be, especially a doctor,” he adds, remembering Thursday’s words. He sees DeBryn relax slightly, shoulders dropping and some of the seriousness draining from his face to be replaced by a hint of his usual wry wit. 

“The other being Inspector Thursday, I take it,” asks DeBryn; Morse nods. “Very well. I can’t say I’ve ever heard of an empath serving as a detective, but then I hardly would, given the low profile most keep. You’ve obviously managed thus far without too many issues.” His brows knit together and he glances inquiringly at the sofa, then back at Morse. “The girl – that autopsy in June when you…?”

“I have a ways to go with reading corpses,” admits Morse.

“You intend to continue trying?” asks DeBryn, with some sharpness. 

“Only if Inspector Thursday is present.”

DeBryn purses his lips. “And ideally myself, I think. Which should not be too difficult, considering.” He gives a small, quick smile, and then stands to return the book to its shelf. Morse, sensing the end of the meeting, steps back towards the door. 

DeBryn comes around his desk with the book in his hand, hefting it slightly as though judging its weight. He stops beside the chair Morse had just been occupying, and meets Morse’s eye. “I appreciate your trust, Morse. And I wish you luck with Eva Carnagan’s case.”

Morse smiles softly. “Thank you, doctor.” 

He steps out into the chill of the outer room, and hurries to make his way up into the crisp fall sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _1 Peter 2:9_ is the verse on which the Quaker doctrine, the priesthood of all believers, is based. 
> 
> Morse alludes to Oscar Wilde’s quote regarding Chopin, “After playing Chopin, I feel as if I had been weeping over sins that I had never committed, and mourning over tragedies that were not my own…”
> 
> DeBryn quotes Alexander Pope’s “An Essay on Criticism.”


	5. THE PHANTOM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the worst monsters are human.

Thursday stands on the far side of his desk drinking a cup of coffee, watching through the window in his door as the trajectory of Evelyn Balfour’s death is taped up on the outer office wall. Even from here he can see in the main heading over the assembled photos and maps that whoever’s written her name has reversed the L and the F, underlining the change in red. In cases where the body’s been found and properly sanctified in good time it’s not a necessary precaution – there’s no possibility of revenants to be drawn to the name – but as long as procedure’s being followed Thursday doesn’t see any point in taking that on.

Jakes is just directing the taping up of the photographs of the goods wagon when Morse slips into the CID, glaring at something to his right a moment after he enters and continuing on, bristling. Thursday didn’t hear the comment, but it’s not hard to guess the subject. His own copy of the Daily Mail is safely in the waste paper bin behind his desk. 

The constable makes a beeline for Thursday’s office, and Thursday nods him in without waiting for his knock, straitening and returning to his seat as Morse enters. He shuts the door behind him.

“Just back from the Bingo parlour, sir,” he says, stepping forward and shedding his coat. “I spoke with the manager, and several of the victim’s colleagues. Two of the women there were aware that she was seeing a man, and had been for several months. They didn’t know his name, and felt that Mr Balfour wasn’t aware either. They were quite sure it wasn’t anyone connected with their work.”

Thursday nods. “Anything else?”

Morse cocks his head slowly, cautiously. “I was wondering if you wanted me to read her,” he says, manner so circumspect that Thursday can’t tell whether he’s advocating for or against it. 

“Well, at the moment I’d say things look fairly cut and dried; I don’t think it’s worth pulling you out for this. You’ve done well.”

Morse gives a little quirk of his lips, the smile of a man being praised for a task he views as utterly routine. “Yes, sir.” He gathers up his coat and steps out.

\--------------------------------------------------

Unsurprisingly, Morse is not content with his work on the case. More surprisingly, however, is what the lad turns up when he goes back for a second look at the scene of crime. 

“ _Un baccio ancora_ ,” says Jakes, mis-stressing the words, as Thursday steps out of his office to fetch the forensics report. The Italian catches him by surprise and he steps over.

“ _Un baccio ancora_ ,” corrects Morse, closer to the proper pronunciation. 

Jakes gives him an unimpressed look. “Alright. So what’s it mean?”

“‘One kiss more,’” says Thursday, looking at the photograph on the wall. The words bring back the acrid smell of gunpowder, the hot sun-dried earth, and blood splattered on white walls. “Italian,” he elaborates, for Jakes’ benefit. Morse, leaning against the map, gives him a look of surprised respect. 

“‘ _Un baccio ancora_ ’ is Otello’s last line in Verdi’s opera.” The constable points at the picture of the chalked words, dividing his glance between them.

Jakes shakes his head. “So what?”

“He sings it having strangled his wife in a fit of jealousy. He believes she’s given a handkerchief to another officer as a sign of her affections.”

Jakes is still staring with irritated incomprehension. “And?”

“Well – his wife’s name is Desdemona. The handkerchief stuffed in Evelyn Balfour’s mouth was embroidered with the letter D.” He indicates the photo.

“You’re kidding. We’re not really giving this any weight, are we?” Jakes looks to Thursday.

Thursday is still staring at the wall, tying together the pieces Morse has proposed. They fit surprisingly neatly. “Interesting, don’t you think?” 

The sergeant is unimpressed. “More likely that we’re looking for a bloke called Dave than a bint called Desdemona.”

“This is some fancy man she had on the go; it would’ve been a spur of the moment thing,” muses Thursday. 

Jakes leaps on this. “Exactly! He’s hardly going to go writing all that up on the back of the door and then sliding it out of view where nobody could find it, is he?”

“But it was found,” cuts in Morse, one arm crossed tightly over his chest, the other rubbing at the back of his neck. He’s beginning to grow defensive, but shows no signs of abandoning his theory.

“Not as though anyone normal would think to look there, is it?” goads Jakes. Morse freezes, staring back without a reply. 

Thursday’s own minor speculation about how Morse did come to find the phrase falls into the background as he watches the fear and suspicion race through the constable’s mind: _Does he know – how does he know – I would know if he knew_. Behind Jakes’ back, Thursday shakes his head minutely; Morse’s eyes flash to him and he exhales, some of the tension relaxing from his whip-like form. 

Across the room the phone rings, and Dixon, sitting by it, hails him: “Sir!” 

Thursday leaves Morse and Jakes to butt heads and crosses the room to pick up the phone. The duty officer, reporting a sudden death. “Where’s this, then?” he asks, glancing at Morse – the lad’s already watching him. He takes down the particulars, then scoops up Morse on the way back to his office.

“Report of a sudden death,” he says, scribbling in a chitty for Morse off the corner of his desk. “Uniform’s already there.” He looks up to see Morse glancing back over his shoulder at Jakes. “Don’t pay any mind to that – doesn’t mean anything. Just a jibe at your manner, that’s all.”

“Glad that’s nothing,” says Morse, absently, turning around. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling fiercely at the red skein. “Seriously, sir, you know the way he talks – he’s practically a Reyist.”

Thursday stares at him flatly, putting down his pencil. “Sergeant Jakes’ views are neither here nor there, Morse. He’s entitled to them, whatever they may be.”

Morse stiffens like a spring being wound, foot tapping on the stained red linoleum. “If he finds out –” 

“Then we’ll deal with it as the situation demands. Men can keep their mouths shut when they have sufficient reason, Morse, and I can provide that if need be. One thing you can be sure of is that if Sergeant Jakes has any suspicions, you won’t be left wondering.”

Morse steps forward to take the chitty from him. “No, sir,” he says, sharp eyes meeting Thursday’s. He’s looking for reassurance, a promise: _You’ll have my back_. Thursday stares back steadily; he does, and he will. Morse apparently sees what he’s looking for – he takes the chitty and nods before leaving. 

Thursday leans back in his chair and wonders at this rate how he’s going to keep his two subordinates from ending up at each other’s throats. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Morse returns from Mrs Madison’s – an elderly widow recently returned from the subcontinent – with suspicions of poisoning. They begin to leave the map of normalcy sharply behind however, when the blood results return the cause of death to have been poisoning by datura stramoniom and Morse’s subsequent re-examination of the crime scene provides another operatic clue. The opera Lakmé, the heroine of which apparently – according to Morse – commits suicide by eating the leaves of the datura plant. 

With Bright’s reluctant agreement, Thursday seconds Morse for the duration of the investigation to act as a subject matter expert. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

The morning is beginning to settle in, sun warm on Thursday’s back and the coffee in his cup a little too cool but still drinkable, when Morse appears at the door. 

“The bank’s come through with an address for Mr Nimmo, sir, the journalist in Mrs Madison’s diary. Somewhere called Drover’s Rest.”

Thursday nods. 

“After that, sir, I was thinking – given that we’re still considering that builder a suspect in Evelyn Balfour’s murder…”

“You want to read her,” he guesses.

Morse shrugs. “If she didn’t recognize her killer, it puts him out.”

“If both murders were committed by the same person, he has an alibi – he was in our cell. We can afford to wait a little to see how the current investigation pans out. We’ll see what we turn up at this Drover’s Rest.” 

“I think,” begins Morse, and gets no further. Behind him the door opens and Bright enters, accompanied by a rather non-descript man – not very tall, square build, close-cropped hair, wearing a turtleneck and brown wool coat. Academic or artist, is Thursday’s immediate impression. 

“Thursday, I’d like to introduce Dr Daniel Cronyn. Dr Cronyn, this is Detective Inspector Thursday. Dr Cronyn is a psychiatrist in private practice, and also an empath, a skill which I understand is useful in his work. He’s made a particular study of these kind of deranged cases. I thought you might benefit from his professional opinion.”

Thursday stands to shake Cronyn’s hand, noting Morse’s sudden evaporation partway through the doctor’s introduction. He tries to think about something dour – skepticism may not be an emotion, but irritation certainly is, and while he has time for properly trained and vetted consultants he doesn’t care to have unknown psychiatrists thrown at him at random. 

The CID gathers to hear Cronyn give an unsettling review of their evidence, interspersed by heckling from Morse, predicting more murders and no helpful means of apprehending the killer. When they finally break up, morale shaken, Bright leads Cronyn away for tea. 

The men mill about discussing what they’ve been told, or at least, it begins that way. Thursday, having just seen McNutt in the doorway, takes the opportunity to collar him about borrowing some of his men in the event more manpower is required. Consequently he’s only listening with half an ear to the conversation going on in the CID office beyond Morse, the constable hammering away at his typewriter with what appears to be intense interest. 

Thursday’s ears prick up halfway through Sergeant Armitage’s tirade, the night shift man scowling as he takes deep drags on his cigarette. “And he’s a doctor, an’ all. Can you imagine him _touching_ you? It’s sick.”

“And just announcing it, like it were something to be proud of. At least most of them keep it to themselves,” chimes in McLaughlin, disgusted. 

Jakes, leaning on his desk, silent until now through the conversation, glances up. “That’s better? Then you never know – anyone could be burning you without you realising.”

Sheppard, one of McNutt’s, shrugs. “I dunno, they’re not all so bad. I had this bird for a while – she was one. A bit neurotic sometimes, but where it counted…” he makes a lurid gesture, “what gets you off gets them off too, if you know what I mean.”

Thursday watches as Morse pounds out a few more letters on the typewriter, rips the paper out, and disappears into Thursday’s office with it. The DI finishes his conversation with McNutt, glides by and breaks up the huddle of men with a pointed look, and continues on into his office. 

Morse is standing with his back to the door staring out the far window, now open despite the chill in the autumn air outside. Even from the doorway Thursday can see the backs of his ears are bright red. 

“Thought we could run out to Nimmo’s house, once I’ve been to the lav,” says Thursday, watching as the lad’s shoulders fall slightly in relief. Thursday shakes his head; Morse always expects the worst.

“Yes, sir.” 

Thursday hears the soft thump of Morse resting his head against the glass as he leaves. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

Morse has produced a map for him to navigate with; it appears that Drover’s Rest is a farm out near Islip – probably at least a forty-minute drive. 

Thursday enjoys driving with Morse on the whole – the lad’s views are near his own, he gives Thursday room to think, and he’s reasonable as a motorist. It would be helpful on the long drives if he had hobbies other than word games and opera, but you can’t have everything. When they have nothing to say they drive in silence, and it’s companionable.

At the moment, though, Thursday can’t help but feel Morse will think he’s saying nothing to avoid saying something, and so rattles his brains for a topic of conversation. 

“I’ve rarely met an empath who didn’t make a secret of it,” he says, as they head north on the Banbury road. “According to you, I didn’t think there were any.”

Morse shrugs. “I’ve never met any, but I know it happens occasionally in professional circumstances. Psychologists and psychiatrists – as with Dr Cronyn – helping people to gain clarity on their emotional problems. I’m sure they don’t print it on their business cards or put it on their plaques. There also used to be a position in large hospitals – may still be for all I know – where an empath was brought in to read newborns for any signs of spiritual malignancy.” He gives a little humourless smile. “That was mostly credulity on the part of the hospital, and greed on the part of the empath – the only thing they could possibly have sensed was the presence of something blood-touched, which anyone else could have sensed anyway.” 

“You don’t approve of empaths making a living by their skills?” asks Thursday pointedly, raising his eyebrows. Morse glances at him.

“Well not fraudulently,” he replies, with some heat. “Otherwise, obviously, I’m hardly in a position to complain.”

“You weren’t very receptive of Dr Cronyn,” suggests Thursday, curious about the reply.

Morse, now watching the road, pauses to change lanes. “I didn’t find his advice very helpful, sir,” he says, frankly, attention restored. “But that had nothing to do with his being an empath.”

“And not wanting to be introduced to him?”

Morse looks over, surprised. “Of course not, sir. Empaths can Recognize,” he says, as though it should mean something. Thursday’s brow furrows. 

“Pardon?”

“You know that wolves can Recognize other wolves, and some other moon-touched? A few others can as well, most often just within their subsets. Empaths are one of them.”

Thursday stares. “What, you mean you see another empath and you can just tell – ?”

“No, no – of course not, or Cronyn would have Recognized me regardless. By touch. We feel differently to each other – something between discomfort and light pain; it increases the longer contact is maintained. There’s a theory that it may be to stop empaths dragging each other down with emotional feedback loops – it would be very easy to skid out if you started to feed each other’s fear or anger.”

“Must make romance difficult,” says Thursday, before remembering the reason he started this conversation in the first place. Morse colours faintly, but continues.

“It makes it very simple, sir. It doesn’t happen. Not between empaths.” He says it with complete certainty, staring straight ahead. 

“What, not ever?”

“Well, I can’t say that definitively – I suppose there could have been unconsummated relationships with very limited contact. But nothing more. We’re all of mixed blood.”

Thursday turns back to look out the windscreen at the wet road. The trees on either side are shedding their leaves, gutters full of golden-brown detritus.

“Do you mind it?” he asks, watching the water pool on the outside of the heaped leaves.

Morse licks his lips, catching his tongue between them while he manoeuvres between a lorry and a jutting kerb without slowing, looking for just an instant like a foolish boy. Then he straightens and rolls his shoulders, and the moment is gone as though it had never been. “There’s no point, is there? But no, not much. There’s not many of us – not many people I can’t be close to. I suppose I would feel differently if I cared for one of them. But… no. Really, I think it’s just as well. Less dangerous on the whole. The fewer of us together under one roof, the better.”

Thursday watches the road signs go by, feeling morose. After a while, he pulls out the map and starts checking their progress against it.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Drover’s Rest, it turns out, is a slaughter yard. An ancient stone house sits overlooking the untidy yard where machinery and equipment have been left to rust: ugly, unsettling things with grisly rows of metal teeth and sharpened hooks hanging from chains. The place feels deserted, abandoned to fall slowly into ruin. 

The front door, unsurprisingly, is locked; Thursday gestures Morse towards it, and the constable puts his shoulder to the task. 

Inside the house the light filtering in through grease paper taped up over the windows is almost grey. The air is full of dust; it smells to Thursday of something best forgotten, something secreted away so long and so deep the dust has covered it over. He feels a chill creep up his spine and forcefully suppresses it. 

“I don’t like this,” says Morse quietly, behind him. 

“Try the light,” suggests Thursday, although he can guess what the answer will be. With the amount of dust and rust built up here, the place must have been abandoned for months. Sure enough, when Morse presses the switch, nothing happens. “Come on; we’ll make it quick.”

They move through the kitchen – still with dishes in the sink and plates with blackened, hardened food on the counter – into the sitting room. The desk is open, papers covered in a sheet of dusk; Morse glances at them but apparently sees nothing of interest. There’s a cup with dried mould in the bottom sitting on the table beside one of the chairs. 

The whole house has a Mary Celeste feel about it that’s starting to chill Thursday’s bones. They come to a hall with a split staircase, one set leading up and one down. He glances up – light and air, and down – dark, and the smell of cold. “You go up, I’ll go down,” he says, pulling his torch out of his pocket and feeling the reassuring weight of his knife there. 

Morse gives him an uncertain glance, but does as he’s told.

The basement smells not so much of dust but of damp. The walls here are unfinished brick and the floor cement, with exposed pipes hanging from the ceiling. The whole place is cold, the earth around it leeching away the heat. Thursday moves through one small non-descript room, and then on the wall spots what looks like the main fuse box for the house. He grabs the lever and wrenches it down.

Directly above him the lights in the basement snap on, startlingly bright after the poor beam of his torch, while from somewhere further down the hall suddenly comes the sound of a man and woman singing at high volume. 

Around him the cold starts to intensify, while the lights in the hallway flicker. Fear pours in like a river with a razor-edge, unprompted, uncontrollable. From behind him he hears footsteps pounding down the stairs and swivels, knife suddenly in his hand, to see Morse stumble around the corner. 

“Sir, we need to leave, now. _Now_ – right now,” he snaps, eyes wide in his white face. 

Behind them, down the long brick corridor, the sound of the twained voices is now becoming distorted – the record growing scratchy, while the pitch rises artificially as if someone’s turned the speed up, so that the previously sedate singing begins to resemble screaming. 

Morse’s presence is enough to put Thursday into motion; he shoves Morse out ahead of him and they scramble out up the stairs, through the dusty rooms of the main storey and out into the yard. They pile into the Jag, where Morse stops to catch his breath and Thursday grabs his shoulder. “Start the goddamn car,” he growls, hardly able to resist grabbing the keys and doing it himself.

Morse looks at him, surprised. “It’s alright, sir; it can’t get through the car frame.”

Thursday forces himself to focus on Morse’s words. “It. A revenant?” Of course. He presses his hand over his eyes, tries to separate his own real fear from that which in fact signals the presence of the blood-touched. There’s something so deeply wrong about the monsters, they cause such a pervasive rent in the world around them that all living things feel their presence, even regular humans with their dull senses – they read it as terror. Which in turn feeds real fear, making it almost impossible to distinguish between them.

“Yes, sir. Can’t you feel it?” 

“Yes,” grits out Thursday. Knowing that the fear is being artificially fanned in him, though, and that the iron of the Jag’s frame will protect them helps him begin to suppress the panic – to crush it down until he can think properly again. He rubs at his eyes until he sees spots, focuses on that rather than the way his heart is skittering in his chest. “Why are you alright?” he asks, shooting Morse an irked look.

Morse shrugs. “Can’t really feel it at all out here.”

“No, but – the fear lingers,” says Thursday, rather lamely.

Morse gives him an apologetic look. “It doesn’t feel like fear to me – us – sir. More like…” he considers, face contorting, “broken fingernails down a blackboard, only they’re your fingernails and some else is dragging them down and you can feel it running right up into your spine.” He shivers slightly. 

Thursday considers that for a minute, then sets it aside. Some things are beyond thinking about. “Why didn’t we sense it right off the bat? Turning the power on that did it, was it?”

Morse makes a noise of agreement. “I thought the house felt off at first, but I couldn’t place why. Sometimes they only come out at certain times of the day, or if a particular person’s there, or if they’re disturbed.”

“The music, I expect. Or maybe the lights,” says Thursday, pulling his hand away. 

Morse glances at him. “It was from Aida, sir. Ramades’ last aria – he sings it just before he’s buried alive.” 

Thursday looks across the yard. “That’s a cement mixer,” he notes, feeling a cold kind of horror creeping over him. 

“Yes, sir.”

“This is the point where we ring for back-up,” Thursday says, switching on the radio. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

The coppers wait outside for the all-clear, accompanied by DeBryn and Cronyn – “The competition,” mutters Jakes to Morse, beside the Jag while Thursday is facing the other way. “Someone with even more crack-pot theories than you.”

It takes two priests and a curate more than an hour to exorcise the revenant, its inhuman screams making the windows in the house tremble and grit and moss fall from the slatted roof. 

When the house is finally freed of the shadow hanging over it, they file in, descending the stairs to the basement one at a time. Thursday can’t help but feel anxiety building as he marches down into the cold brick hallway again, but when he glances at Morse behind him sharply the constable shakes his head, and he deepens his breathing and continues on. 

In the basement they find the desiccated corpse of Benjamin Nimmo chained up behind a new brick wall, a recording of Aida, and a wall with a picture of Morse cut out of the paper taped up on it. 

“Looks like you’ve got an admirer,” says Jakes, sounding shaken.

Morse, staring wide-eyed at the printed photo, for once doesn’t seem to hear. 

\--------------------------------------------------

Thursday offers to drive for the journey back to Oxford, but the lad shakes off the suggestion; he trails his fingers over the Jag’s smooth bonnet as he heads for the driver’s seat, Thursday hiding a smile. It’s the one affection of Morse’s he can truly understand, and he has no mind to deprive him of it.

“Do you think he knew?” asks Morse, staring out at the empty fields all around them, all mud and soggy grass. “Miller – what would happen to Nimmo?”

Thursday sighs. “He could hardly have failed to; revenants are raised by violent and unsettled deaths. Don’t see how immurement could be much closer to either. He might even have intended it.”

Morse’s lip turns upwards. “What would be the point?”

“More killings, murder by proxy,” suggests Thursday, voice guttural. “Germans managed it in the Blitz; revenants killed half again as many as the bombs ever did, our own people. Went on for years after the War – still does, there’s a few even now in the East End no one’s laid to rest, poor bastards. Just been sealed up somewhere to rant and rage, hungry for death.” His hand is white on the door’s grip, the raised stitching in the leather digging into his palm. He still carries in his head the map of all the dead streets in London, bombed-out roads left without anyone to sanctify the dead for too long and for years after abandoned to revenants. 

“We did the same,” points out Morse, with the equanimity and detachment of a generation too young to understand the evil they were fighting – what they had to lose – the fear they all lived with every day in their mouths like cyanide capsules. 

Thursday shakes his head, changing topics. “If it was intentional, does it tell us anything?”

Morse looks at him, worried, unhappy. “Only that he’s not above causing collateral damage, sir,” he says. “Which means we had better find the next victim faster.”

\----------------------------------------------------------

Morse comes up with the incredible-sounding prediction that there will be five murders in total, to match the lines on a musical staff, and that the first letter of each victim’s name corresponds with the note. Evelyn, Grace, Ben. Leaving D and F. Shortly after a musical score turns up at the Daily Mail – The Snow Maiden. And a seven year-old child goes missing from the street outside her house: Debbie Snow. 

A single sheet of blank musical staffs gives two phrases in crooked red crayon: NO ALIBI ERR BADLY. NEARBY LIBRA IDOL.

Debbie Snow’s description is circulated to all cars and foot patrols, with all available off-duty officers and cadets being called in to augment the search. It won’t be enough. This maniac – Keith Miller, according to Cronyn – won’t be found by accident. Thursday can guess that well enough.

He stops by the CID office on his way to speak to the Snows to find Jakes tearing into Morse for not working fast enough. The constable is standing beside the blackboard bearing Miller’s two clues, notebook resting on a filing cabinet, spine twisted cat-like as he stares wide-eyed at Jakes. Thursday backs Jakes off; for once, the sergeant fails to take an order. He looks back at Thursday, uncowed. 

“I’m thinking of the kiddie, sir.”

“Us turning on each other’s going to help her, is it? Exactly what he wants,” says Thursday reasonably, nevertheless holding himself between the two men. Morse is all nerves beside him; Thursday can feel the constable’s twitchiness – the trembling in his leg as he tries to keep from tapping it, his clawed fingers running up and down the side of his notebook. Jakes is unnaturally tense, frame set squarely, drawn up to his full height. 

“It’s Morse these messages are meant for, sir. We all know that. He’s seen his picture in the paper. One bloody misfit talking to another,” he finishes in a low voice, eyes flashing to Morse. Morse snaps his pencil down onto the surface of the filing cabinet.

“About your business, sergeant,” snaps Thursday sharply, before things go pear-shaped. Jakes leaves, slipping out through the CID’s main doors. 

Morse shakes his head, fingers tangled in his hair as turns back to stare up at the chalkboard. The tension doesn’t fade from his shoulders in the least, his form practically vibrating with it. “He’s right. If I can’t crack this…”

“It’s not all on you, Morse, whatever Sergeant Jakes might say.”

“The Snow Maiden melts, sir. Whether he intends to bring that about by fire, or –” he shudders, and pulls his palm over his eyes. _Sun-touched_ , thinks Thursday; the lad is too close to this. Morse looks up, blue eyes almost fever-bright in his pale face. “I need to go to the morgue. I’ve waited long enough, there must be something there.”

“Something more solid than this clue?” asks Thursday, reasonably, glancing at the board. Morse stares at him, stricken, and Thursday presses his shoulder. “Work with what you have, lad. Give it an hour or two at least. I’ll be back later, we can talk then.”

Morse gives him a dissatisfied look, but turns back to the board without protest. Thursday straightens his coat and hurries out to speak with the parents. 

\--------------------------------------------------

Thursday finds nothing useful in his interview with the Snows. Morse, however, somehow solves whatever puzzle is contained in Miller’s clue and ends up in a confrontation with the lunatic under the Bodleian Library. 

Jakes comes in to deliver the news while Thursday is still trying to decrypt the clue, the sergeant shuffling in without his usual confidence, face grey; Morse has been stabbed and taken to hospital. The suspect has escaped without any further sightings. Uniform doesn’t know why Morse was there, where he encountered the suspect, how he was injured, or how severe his injuries are.

Thursday dismisses Jakes with a wooden calm. He sits silently in his office for nearly a minute, staring at Morse’s empty desk through the window in his door. Then he rips the paper bearing Miller’s clue out of his notebook, crams it into a ball and hurls it across the room.

\-------------------------------------------------------

It’s nearly half an hour before further news arrives – Strange, this time, to inform him that Morse is being looked after by DeBryn, at the constable’s own insistence. Only then is Thursday able to really focus back on the case, leaving the cutting silence of his office for the CID’s main room to assist with the coordination of the search patrols. 

It’s another hour before Morse returns, looking tousled and a bit rough around the edges. Thursday gives him a hard look from across the room, searching for any signs of pain or weakness, but sees none. Jakes, possibly guilt-ridden, offers to lend him a shirt – at what cost, Thursday can only guess, and Morse returns from the locker room looking nearly himself. 

“We’ve had some new clues in,” says Thursday, handing Morse the musical staff found by the patrol on Catt street not far from where Morse went down. “You can take a crack at them,” he suggests, rather unnecessarily; Morse is already reading them, one finger pressed against his lips in thought. 

“Some coppers have no brains. All coppers are bastards. Therefore,” mumbles Morse.

“Therefore what?” asks Thursday.

Morse looks up. “It’s this sign, sir,” he says, pointing to the three dots on the page. “It indicates a consequence in mathematical proofs and logical arguments.”

“I can see you’re right at home with this,” says Thursday dryly, propelling him gently towards his desk. 

Morse stops unexpectedly, digging his heels into the linoleum. “I can’t stay here, sir. I need to be out looking for her. We’re running out of time.”

Thursday pauses beside him, giving him a firm look. “Morse, you’re only just back from the hospital. You’re lucky to be back on duty at all. And right now, it’s your brain we need. Alright?”

Morse sighs, deflating, but allows himself to be led back to his desk. “Alright, sir.” 

\-----------------------------------------------------

In the end, though, as time begins to run down and Morse falls into the same restless agitation as the rest of the men, Thursday lets him take the Jag out on the promise that he not approach any building he suspects may contain either Miller or the child without back-up. Somehow, Morse is led to the Bocardo prison, and the remaining door on display at St Michael at the North Gate. 

Morse meets them at the iron gates to the churchyard, more cars pulling up as Thursday and Jakes hurry over. The sky is still dark as they approach the church’s wooden doors, the church warden hurrying on ahead to open them. 

Inside Thursday takes the lead, throwing open the doors leading from the porch to the nave. At the front of the church in the chancel a casket has been set on two sawhorses, surrounded by elaborate candelabras holding brilliant white candles. 

“Get it open,” he orders, hurrying past the pews and up beside the casket. Morse passes him to push at the head of the casket, while Jakes pulls at the foot. Under their combined strength the lid slides open, revealing a rosy-cheeked, sleeping child.

Thursday’s heart gives a little skip of relief as he stares down at the girl, safe, unhurt; victories like this feel all too rare, and it’s easy to forget why the work matters. 

As he watches, Morse reaches past him and carefully runs a hand over her neck, finding a pulse – or appearing to. Thursday shoots him a hard look; he ignores it. Whatever he finds doesn’t seem to bother him.

“She seems fine, sir,” he says, glancing up. 

Thursday nods. “Let’s get her home.”

\----------------------------------------------------

“It was too easy, sir,” Morse says afterwards, resting his head in his hand as they sit in the Jag. The sun’s just rising behind the church as Thursday watches the men handing out hot drinks and sandwiches from a van. Morse is holding a half-finished cup of coffee in his other hand, the drink slowly going cold. 

“Don’t know that I’d say that,” says Thursday dryly. 

“If he was playing by the rules – the Snow Maiden melts. Debbie Snow was never in any real danger; there were air holes in the casket, sir.” He shakes his head, sighing loudly. “He’s playing with us, sir. What worries me is why. You need to let me read the victims, sir. If I’d done it earlier we would have known that Evelyn Balfour wasn’t murdered by her lover, maybe even that it wasn’t Benjamin Nimmo.”

“And you reading Debbie Snow just now, what was that?” asks Thursday flatly, shifting to regard his temporary bagman. 

Morse looks up, surprised. “What?”

“We agreed, nothing to do with children.”

“She was fine! The case wasn’t about her – she was just … bait. Something to get us riled up. And it worked.” Morse tries to make a gesture with his hands, and nearly spills coffee over his trousers. 

“Nevertheless, you don’t get to rewrite the rules as you see fit. It can’t work that way – else what’s the point in rules?” 

Morse frowns, nodding only grudgingly. “I still need to go to the morgue, sir. On that note – Dr DeBryn can spot me as well.”

Thursday raises his eyebrows. “He knows, does he?” 

“Yes, sir.” He turns to look out the window, stifling a yawn.

That, at least, answers the question of why Morse insisted on being patched up by a pathologist.

Thursday opens his mouth to reply, and the radio beeps. He sighs but picks up the phone; Morse gets slowly out and walks over to return his cup.

Daniel Cronyn, dispatch informs him, has been reported dead.

\---------------------------------------------------

The psychiatrist has been laid out on his consulting sofa, with a large glass bottle propped on a ladder above the putrefied remains of his skull. Thursday is used to seeing such decay in corpses several weeks old – not hours. From the smell, Aqua Regia – nitro hydrochloric acid – according to DeBryn. 

There’s very little he can tell them initially in the consulting rooms. A few hours later, though, the autopsy brings more clarity. Thursday, anticipating awkwardness, leaves Jakes behind. 

“Given the decay caused to his features, we will need either finger prints or dental records to confirm his identity for certain. However, his brain was entirely intact and examination of the hypothalamus confirmed that he was indeed an empath, which certainly goes a long way to confirming his identity given the rarity of the trait,” says DeBryn, standing behind the sheeted corpse. Even here in the large, well-ventilated room the scent of the acid and the rotted flesh lingers now in the air. DeBryn seems unbothered by it; Thursday, used himself to most of the stenches of death, bears it easily. Morse stands a couple of yards from the foot of the autopsy table, staring at the wall and looking wan.

“His – I’m sorry, how?” Thursday’s been aware that autopsies identify empaths – in the past, it has simply been one of the boxes that’s come back filled in by the pathologist. He never thought or cared to wonder how. 

“Examination of the hypothalamus under the microscope using dyes shows differences found only in sun-touched, Inspector. Of course for centuries people believed there must be physiological differences – often immense ones, such as a second heart, or extra organs – and certain more extreme wings of both the religious and scientific communities went to terrifying lengths in an effort to prove it. To prove, in effect, that sun-touched aren’t human. Ironically, all they proved by their own logic was the reverse. It wasn’t until the 1940s that we developed the technique to identify sun-touched, and as I say the difference is literally microscopic.” 

“When I am dead and opened, you shall find lying in my heart: nothing,” says Morse quietly, with dark humour. Thursday gives him an unobtrusive look; he’s still staring off into the distance as though his thoughts are far afield. 

DeBryn, apparently deciding not to touch that, shrugs and moves on. “I have found a small comfort: if it’s any consolation, Dr Cronyn was already dead when the acid did its work.” 

“So what was the cause then?” asks Thursday.

“From my examination, he appears to have been an habitual morphine addict.” DeBryn raises one of the cadaver’s arms to show the injection marks. 

“There was a syringe in his desk drawer wasn’t there, Morse?”

There’s a pause; Thursday looks over to find Morse apparently returning slowly from wherever his thoughts are. “Oh, um, yes. Together with some ampules of morphine. Mm-hm.”

Thursday looks back to DeBryn. “Somebody gave him an overdose maybe? Or slipped something in the syringe that wasn’t morphine?”

“Possible, of course. Until I’ve had his blood results back…” the doctor shrugs. “Time was between two and five this morning.”

Morse looks up, moving closer. “We need more information,” he says, stopping a few feet from Thursday. Thursday glances at him, expressionlessly. 

“Think that’s a good idea, do you?” he asks. 

“I think we’ve been one step behind the whole time, and people keep dying. He had us out chasing Debbie Snow all night, and we didn’t even consider he might be killing someone else in the meanwhile. Anything that might help, anything I can tell us – isn’t that what you once said?”

Thursday looks to DeBryn. “What do you think?”

DeBryn raises his eyebrows. “I think your killer has a habit of killing his victims cruelly to amuse himself, and that Morse has recently suffered a physical attack. That being said, whatever killed him didn’t leave any of the hallmarks of the usual more torturous poisons – if I had to hazard a guess I would suspect a morphine overdose.” 

“We can’t keep turning this down – we’ve lost too many leads and too much time already,” argues Morse, some colour coming into his cheeks now. 

Thursday looks from him to Cronyn’s corpse. Cronyn, who in a small way wasn’t so different from Mann, or even Morse. Trying to use the hand he’d been dealt as best he could to make their country safer. “Fine,” he says, stepping back. Morse gives him a quick smile. 

“I’ve cleaned out the wounds, but you’re better not to touch them,” says DeBryn, lifting the sheet. Morse nods once, stepping forward. Thursday slips round so he can see the lad’s face as he reaches out, fingers outstretched. His eyes are slanted down only looking as far as he needs to. 

He inhales sharply the moment he touches Cronyn’s arm, face taking on a pained aspect that grows deeper as the seconds tick by, his breathing growing faster. His shoulders curve inwards, back bending as if under an intense weight.

“Morse, that’s enough. Morse? _Morse_.” Thursday lays a hand on his arm; Morse startles up, releasing his touch on Cronyn and stumbling away. His waxy skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, eyes narrow and pupils very contracted. 

“I don’t understand,” he says, eyes darting from Thursday to Cronyn to DeBryn without settling. “It’s all confused – doesn’t make sense.” He backs away breathing hard, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Well, he was a morphine addict, and if he died of an overdose his last hours may well have been very confused,” suggests DeBryn. 

Morse shakes his head, fingers tangling in his hair. “It’s not right… the influence of the drug is certainly there; everything is muted and tangled up, all bleeding together. And you’re right, he was an empath. But he was terrified and desperate and full of horror before he died.”

“If he knew Miller was giving him an overdose…” suggests Thursday. Morse gives him a torn, unhappy look.

“It’s not right, sir. I don’t know why, but there’s more to it than that. I just don’t understand _what_ ,” he exclaims, pulling his hands violently free from his hair with a snarl.

Thursday steps forward and puts a hand on Morse’s shoulder. “Alright, that’ll do lad. Maybe it’ll come to you later. We’ve done enough here. Doctor.” He nods to DeBryn, and guides Morse out of the morgue. 

\----------------------------------------------------

“Morphine addict,” says Thursday for something to say as Morse drives them back to the station. “Don’t suppose access would be a problem in his line of work. Didn’t strike me as the type. Did he you?”

There’s no answer from Morse; Thursday looks at him to see his eyes glazing over, hands slipping away from the wheel as he stares blankly into the distance. “Oi!” Thursday grabs the wheel, pulling them back onto the proper side of the road, and Morse startles up into attentiveness. “Haven’t you been looking after yourself?” he demands, heatedly. “Pull over!”

With Thursday behind the wheel, they change directions and head away from the station and towards home. Morse sits silently and doesn’t protest, either too embarrassed or too worn out. 

There’s always a warmth to coming home. Everything here is what is at the heart of him – his wife; his children; it’s where he sleeps, eats, laughs, loves. Where he feels safe, and more importantly keeps his family safe. None of it is conscious thought, just a soft feeling of contentment that seeps in when he crosses the threshold.

Today Morse follows him in and hangs his coat up beside Thursday, moving so slowly it might have been soaked in concrete. “Sit yourself down through there,” Thursday tells him, nodding to the sitting room. “I’ll put a brew on. Or there’s a drop of brandy. Better make it brandy,” he concludes, looking at Morse. 

Win is in the kitchen when he steps in to fetch the brandy and tell her he’s brought Morse home for a few hours. She gives him a disapproving look as he brings down the bottle. “Is that brandy? I hope you’re not leading him astray.”

“He’s been in the wars, lost a bit of blood,” explains Thursday. “Do you have some stew and dumplings you could warm up for him?”

The dubious expression vanishes from her face. “I’ll put something on. It’s not brandy you need, it’s stout; something with a bit of iron in. There’s a bottle at the back.” 

He fetches it down and she hands him a corkscrew and glass with a smile. 

Morse is sitting on the corner of the sofa with his head resting against the wooden frame, eyes closed. He opens them and looks over at Thursday languidly without raising his head as Thursday enters, setting down the bottle, glass and corkscrew on the table. 

“Thought I could bring the radio in here,” says Thursday, straightening. “Doubt they’ll have opera on, but you like classical, don’t you?” He starts to leave, and is stopped by Morse’s hand on his wrist.

“Don’t. Please.” He’s moved surprisingly quickly, is sitting up straight-backed and staring pleadingly at Thursday. The front of his suit jacket has fallen open with the movement to reveal the white shirt below, spotted with blood on the lower left side. “I can’t; not today.” 

Thursday pauses for a moment, then steps back slowly and sits down beside Morse. “Alright,” he says, good-naturedly, suppressing the wave of irritation at the fact that Morse hasn’t asked for help and equally that he didn’t think it might be needed. Morse lets out his breath and slumps back, grip on Thursday’s wrist loosening but not releasing. He leans his head against the back of the sofa again, staring up at the ceiling. 

After about half an hour his eyes slide shut, his breathing slowing and evening out. His hand slips limply from Thursday’s, falling to rest on the cushion between them. Thursday gives him a minute, then stands carefully and drifts out into the hall. He considers going upstairs to fetch Morse a blanket, but much as Morse seems to want to eschew it empaths need the presence of others – those they trust, at least. He reaches down his coat instead and stretches that out over the lad. Morse doesn’t wake. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The answer to Morse’s puzzled reading of Cronyn’s corpse is yet another word game, although doubtless the reading leads Morse to the solution: KEITH MILLER – I’M THE KILLER. A false suspect created by a false psychiatrist, or rather a man impersonating a psychiatrist. Mason Gull, a parricide released from psychiatric care only to kill again.

From there everything falls into place with startling speed. Gull’s targets: those involved in his original trial and committal. His final victim: Faye Madison, Grace Madison’s niece. The location: Alfredus College, home to Morse’s choir, TOSCA. 

Thursday supposes that really, he might have predicted that Morse would get something wrong – he’s been uncannily right about everything up until now. F, he discovers on the roof of Alfredus, doesn’t stand for Faye but for Fred. 

Gull, as predicted by Morse, is indeed alive and well, waiting with a knife for his fifth and final murder. He goes on waiting even after Fred challenges him – “waiting for an audience, what else?”

That is his downfall. Morse appears over a balustrade from the adjoining building, making his way up the wet copper panels that make up the centre of the roof. Gull, satisfied with the presence of his biographer, stops stalling. “ _La commedia e finita_. Scarpia dies, you arrest me,” he tells Morse, raising his knife. 

“Not if I rewrite it,” denies Morse fiercely, edging forward. Gull brings the knife down.

Thursday’s already blocking as the blade descends, instinct and training acting together; he catches Gull’s arm on his forearm and holds it there. 

An instant later Morse barrels into Gull, the force of the impact also knocking Thursday down. The two of them go tumbling down together off the raised copper panelling and onto the slats by the edge of the roof, Morse landing upper-most. He twists Gull’s arm behind his back, knee in the small of the bastard’s back, breathing hard.

And then the rest of the lads arrive. Morse hauls Gull up for Jakes and Strange to take away, the lunatic taunting him to the end, unrelenting or repenting. 

Bright stays a moment longer to ensure everything’s shipshape; Thursday puts in a good word for Morse, which he watches slide by unnoticed. 

“I imagine getting back to general duties after all this will seem like a holiday,” is all the DCS says to Morse as he takes his leave. 

Morse stands there as Bright leaves, unacknowledged – much less thanked – for having just risked his life to solve the OCP’s highest-profile case since he himself was a victim in January.

“I’ll book him in,” offers Thursday to the constable, turning to go. 

“How d’you do it?” asks Morse suddenly. “Your house, your things – _you_ , the minute you walked in. It was like you just… left it all at the front door.”

Thursday turns, swallowing, feeling the horror and loathing rear up inside him. All the thick, choking darkness that Gull, who killed complete innocents simply for his own sick pleasures, breeds in him. “’Cause I have to. A case like this’ll tear the heart right out of a man. Find something worth defending, and put that first.”

“I had. Found something,” says Morse, distressed. 

“Music? Alright then – it’s your love, your life – isn’t that right? Then you have to fight for it, you can’t let him win. Go home, put your best record on, loud as it’ll play. And with every note you remember: that’s something the darkness couldn’t take from you.”

He can feel Morse’s eyes on him as he leaves, but right now he has nothing more to give. Not with four people in the morgue and a man who doesn’t give a damn under arrest. Not when it feels like the darkness has won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse alludes to Mary 1 of England's famous quote regarding Calais.
> 
> If anyone's interested, Jack Laskey is currently starring in a CBC show called X Company about a WWII Canadian espionage camp running underground missions in Europe; Jack plays a young man with an eidetic memory and synesthesia. CBC is posting the episodes on its website as they air, although I'm not sure if these are viewable for those outside Canada.


	6. skid out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thursday’s always ignored – has allowed himself to ignore – the consequences of employing an empath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Off-screen rape is a major element in this chapter. Additional warning for attempted self-harm. Skipping this chapter won't be a big problem plot-wise.

As the days shorten and the trees shake off their remaining leaves to stand stark and bare against the bleak November sky, the duty roster begins to thin out. 

It happens every year after All Hallow’s Eve and Guy Fawkes, two of the busiest and most stressful nights in the calendar. The usual parade of coughs, colds and flu troops in to carry off their fair share. A handful more, the unlucky ones, are cut out by the rising tide of blood touched who grow stronger as the nights wax – careless with their seals, they’re most often caught in their dreams where their vitality is drained nightly until someone notices their decline. 

Thursday considers himself lucky to have only lost Jakes thus far, and apparently only to a cold; Morse hasn’t fallen to the scythe of the shifting seasons. 

It is therefore with Morse acting as his temporary bagman that he heads out to answer a report of a sudden death of a young woman in one of the cheap residential neighbourhoods near the Thames. 

In the car, Morse gives him a look of surprise when he reads the address.

“When was this called in, sir?” Morse asks, starting the car.

“About half an hour ago, I think. Why?”

Morse nods, surprise fading. “That explains it. I live just down from there; there weren’t any uniforms there when I left this morning.” 

Thursday suppresses a smile; cheap residential housing indeed. Although for a bachelor living on a detective constable’s wages the options aren’t wide. Not that he imagines Morse is much bothered by it; the lad looks as though he lives out of a suitcase. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Morse’s street is white, block flats on one side behind an iron fence, the pavement uneven and cracking, a couple of empty places left in the cement for trees apparently long since deceased.

Morse points out his own dwelling with an absent wave as they roll by, Jag already pulling up. On the other side of the street are mostly larger Victorian houses, probably mostly converted to lodging houses. Their destination is apparent by the cars parked outside, one a police vehicle, the other DeBryn’s Morris. 

The house is, like its neighbours, an ugly looming Victorian mansion-style construction. It’s well-kept, new painted with a well-tended but very shallow yard. Thursday leads the way up the stairs to the porch and inside.

The atmosphere is somewhat old lady-ish: lots of mirrors, aged photographs and doilies on tables. There’s a faint smell of potpourri, and the fringe-trimmed curtains have been partially drawn to keep out the strong light, possibly to protect the William Morris wallpaper – or just in keeping with the general staid atmosphere. Thursday imagines that somewhere, there is probably a large longhaired cat named Aspidistra. 

They’re met in the hallway by DeBryn, carrying a black Gladstone case. He nods to them. “She’s upstairs,” he says, indicating the staircase to the left of the hallway. Morse treads off, steps soft on the thick carpet. 

“That’s your medical case, isn’t it?” inquires Thursday. 

DeBryn gives him a sardonic look. “Indeed. The landlady – Mrs Lovelace – was taken ill upon the discovery of the body; heart palpitations, reportedly. Nothing a phial of sal volitale couldn’t cure. Constable Strange is in with her now putting the kettle on.” 

Thursday glances over DeBryn’s shoulder down the hallway; towards the back of the house he can hear the sound of a gas element clicking on. He looks back to the pathologist. “And the dead woman?”

DeBryn’s face straightens, eyes growing serious. “Philippa Johnson. A student, just moved in owing to some water damage at her former lodging, according to Mrs Lovelace. Twenty.” He shakes his head.

Thursday sighs. “Cause of death?”

“I haven’t had the opportunity to examine her properly as of yet, inspector. There was certainly a strong blow to the head, probably caused by the bed frame.” They turn to the stairs.

“Interfered with?” asks Thursday, flatly.

“I haven’t any information as to that yet either,” answers DeBryn in the same tone. 

From the second floor there comes the sound of hurried, heavy footsteps, and then a door banging shut. Thursday glances at DeBryn. “Who’s up there?”

The pathologist looks up, frowning. “Should only be Morse.”

Thursday picks up his pace, taking the last stairs two at a time. “Second door on the left,” instructs DeBryn from behind. Thursday cuts through the hallway with only a quick impression of wood panelling and muted floral wallpaper, and straight on into the room indicated. 

Philippa Johnson’s room is the typical mess of a student in the middle of a move – open boxes, suitcases and a trunk filled with papers, books, photographs, clothes and trinkets strewn about. Some of it has already been put away on the meagre shelving provided, or half-unpacked onto the scratched surface of an old desk positioned under the window. 

Philippa Johnson is lying, grey and cold, on her bed. She’s wearing a warm woollen dress but no stockings or shoes, her make-up badly smeared and her long blonde hair dishevelled. The pillow under her head is soaked with rust-coloured blood.

There’s no sign of Morse.

Thursday stalks out into the hall, turning away from the stairs and hurrying down the carpeted corridor. Most of the doors are open – other bedrooms, from the looks of it. Two of the doors on the right are closed. He tries the first: open, concealing a linen closet. He closes it and keeps going. 

The second door is locked; when he rattles the handle he hears the tapping of leather on tile and someone rummaging hurriedly through a cupboard. “Morse? Are you alright?”

DeBryn appears beside him, eyes darting to the door and back to Thursday. “I’ve revised my previous statement, inspector: she has been assaulted.”

From the other side of the door there’s the sound of glass breaking against something ceramic. Thursday’s head snaps back to the door. “Open it,” says DeBryn, sharply, from beside him. 

Thursday backs up and puts his shoulder to the door, throwing his bulk against it. The thin lock gives under his weight and the door flies open.

The man he finds on the other side reminds Thursday far more of a trapped animal than his bagman. Morse is hunched in the corner of the room by the toilet, knees up by his ears, panting so hard his shoulders are shaking with the force of his breathing. He’s soaked with sweat, hair drooping into his huge, panicked eyes. As the door bangs open he presses himself harder against the wall, shaking violently, a low wordless sound of terror escaping him. 

All Thursday can see, though, is his clawed hand rising to his throat, and the shard of glass grasped in it. 

“Stop him,” orders DeBryn, entirely unnecessarily. Thursday is already across the room, snatching Morse’s wrist in a crushing grip and dragging it forcibly away from his throat. DeBryn darts over and pulls the glass out of his hand before disappearing again behind them.

Morse begins to cry out and Thursday drops down on him, stifling the constable’s mouth with his other hand and trying to pin him down against the floor. It’s far more difficult than he would have thought given Morse’s thin frame and usual lack of physical confidence: Morse is twisting and kicking like a mad-man, demonstrating surprising strength and a complete lack of regard for himself or Thursday. Eventually though Thursday, with the advantage of weight, experience and at the moment sanity, is able to drag him out from the corner and use most of his bulk to simply crush Morse against the floor. 

He holds him there, half-lying, half-kneeling on top of his bagman, still with a hand over his mouth. Morse is sobbing now, squirming and shuddering in Thursday’s grip like a rabbit awaiting slaughter. “It’s alright, Morse, you’re alright lad. You’re fine,” murmurs Thursday, eliciting no reaction. 

DeBryn reappears as he’s trying to comfort the lad; “He won’t recognize you,” he says, face terse but tone solely practical. He drops down beside them and unbuttons Morse’s shirt cuff, forcing his sleeves up to the elbow with a glance at the tattoo inked into the skin. From his pocket he produces a capped syringe and a small glass bottle, the contents of which are surprisingly puce. He draws the liquid into the syringe quickly but carefully, then slips it into Morse’s forearm just above his tattoo and depresses the plunger. 

“Trepolomene, derived originally from Heart’s Ease,” says DeBryn, as the syringe empties. “It will cause him to lose consciousness in a few seconds.” He withdraws the empty needle. Thursday looks up at the doctor, and consequently almost misses the black-out. Morse simply goes limp in his grip, head drooping down onto the floor, his limbs sprawling gently on the smooth tile. “You can let go of him,” adds DeBryn, reaching for Morse’s neck and counting against his watch. “He’s not a danger to anyone anymore.”

Thursday releases Morse’s wrists and slides his hand free from the lad’s mouth, standing slowly and stepping out from beside him. He can still feel Morse’s hot breath on his palm; he wipes it on his trouser-leg but the sensation doesn’t diminish, the heat of Morse’s silent screams etched into his skin.

The rest of the world is sliding into focus at different speeds, the way it always does after high-adrenaline situation when all his attention was focused on one minute detail and everything else effectively put on hold. He realises first that the entire confrontation could only have taken just over a minute, yet feels like it lasted at least a quarter of an hour. His awareness of his surroundings comes next, registering facts he had no time to notice before: the smell of cleaning product and soap, the broken glass and toothbrushes lying in the sink; Morse’s hand, curled palm-upwards on the floor, slicked with blood. 

Finally, he picks up on his own reactions. His heart is pounding against his ribcage like a hammer, so fast he’s beginning to feel lightheaded. His back and sides are wet with sweat beneath his suit jacket, now growing cold and uncomfortable as his vest sticks to his skin. 

Overshadowing all other assessments of the situation, though, as he looks down on DeBryn now examining Morse’s hand, is the fact that he is very quickly growing extraordinarily angry. The heat of that rage is already building, seeping like liquid metal to fill the gaps between his ribs, the nooks in his spine, the tender softness beneath his fingernails. It pools there, thick and hot, burning him from the inside out. 

“What happens now?” manages Thursday, voice gruff. DeBryn looks up over his shoulder. 

“He’ll regain consciousness in about ten minutes. He’ll be alright – entirely himself, but weak and in some discomfort for a few hours. He should go home as soon as possible before that sets in in force.” 

“Right. Ten minutes, you said?”

“About that,” agrees DeBryn, turning back to Morse. He opens his bag and pulls out some gauze. 

Thursday slips out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him – managing by supreme effort not to slam it. He can feel the scalding sea of anger rising in him, a furious tide fighting to be unleashed on something, anything. He strides down to the end of the hall opposite from the stairs and into the last room, a man’s bedroom by the décor and the clothes lying on the edge of the bed and hung on the wardrobe door. As he crosses the room he barks his ankle on a half-open desk drawer; he kicks it shut with a curse, the entire bureau trembling.

Thursday finishes up at the window and stands facing it, feeling the cold of the November day creeping in softly through the single pane of glass. He can see his own reflection dimly there, loose strands of hair fallen into his face, mouth very thin, cheeks pulled tight over the bone beneath. 

Mostly though, all he can see is Morse staring at him in mindless terror, the beginning of a scream on his lips as the emotions Philippa Johnson registered in her last minutes rule him and he struggles to do something – absolutely anything – to prevent the same violence that befell her. 

Thursday’s always ignored – has _allowed_ himself to ignore – the consequences of employing an empath. Convinced himself that with precautions and fail-safes, there would be no need to look closer at that powder keg. At just how wrong hiring a bagman with the potential to lose his sense of self to strong emotions could go. For the both of them. 

Thursday drags his hands roughly back through his hair, eyes closed, and tries to wipe out all the might-have-beens: most of all the razor-edged memories of the past his restless mind is trying to recast as present. It’s like trying to forget a bullet wound. 

\------------------------------------------------------

Thursday is summoned back less by the time than the soft sound of voices. He enters the bathroom quietly to find Morse curled on his side now, DeBryn perched on the edge of the bathtub. Morse looks up as Thursday comes in, craning his neck awkwardly to see. 

Morse’s skin is even paler than usual – distinctly unhealthy-looking, with a greyish tinge – and his blue eyes seem glassy. There’s no trace of mania, though; Thursday sees instant recognition in his bagman as well as relief, although at the moment it does little to endear the lad to him. 

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, coming around to stand beside DeBryn and hearing the distance in his own voice. 

Morse makes a face. “Lousy, sir.” He pushes himself up onto his elbow all the same, DeBryn reaching out to help him pull himself up into a sitting position. He blinks at them dizzily, raising a hand to his head – it’s wrapped in gauze. 

“You know what happened?” asks Thursday, still staring down at him expressionlessly.

“Yes, sir; I skidded out,” replies Morse, softly. He’s staring at Thursday uncertainly, as if aware something’s wrong but unable to place it. Thursday gives him no clues. 

“Right. Do you think you can walk home?”

Morse considers it. “I suppose so. Slowly.”

“Alright, then. Let’s go.” He leans down and takes Morse’s arm on one side; DeBryn, after giving Thursday a quick, enquiring look, does the same on the other. 

Morse makes it down the hall without too much trouble; the stairs prove more of an obstacle, but the staircase is a wide one and he’s able to lean on them as they go. Thursday leaves DeBryn to get him outside and stops in to tell Strange to keep an eye on the crime scene; the constable gives him an odd look, but can’t very well object. Privilege of rank.

It’s fortunate that Morse is barely a block away; they would hardly have made it any further. The stairs at the end nearly do him in, and Thursday can’t help wishing he were ten years younger – it would be so much easier to just throw the lad over his shoulder and have done with it. But his days of carrying men up two flights of stairs are long gone, so he and DeBryn just coax the constable up slowly, taking most of his weight between them.

Morse’s flat is the typical bachelor accommodation – small, messy and poorly arranged. It is even more typically Morse – full of musical albums, books and wrinkled clothes, but nothing even vaguely superfluous such as a sofa, extra chairs, a proper dining table or bed clothes. 

Morse’s bed is the usual fare for a cheap furnished flat: a single bed, wrought-iron frame, mattress sagging in the middle. They roll Morse into it, DeBryn helping him to shed his coat, jacket, shoes and belt; Thursday stands back and waits, arms crossed. Above the bed quite a beautiful dream-catcher has been mounted, explaining at least why Morse didn’t fall prey to the station’s recent spate of blood-touched victims. It’s practically the only decoration in the room, unless mess counts as a decorative technique.

“You’re off for the rest of the day,” says Thursday once DeBryn has moved away and Morse’s attention is free, in a tone that allows no disagreement. “Do you have something here for lunch? If not I can get Strange to drop something ‘round, tell him you’ve come down with a cold.”

Morse, just curling down into his mattress, opens his eyes. His face is lined with exhaustion, but his gaze is still focused. “What? I don’t know – what about the case? I found –”

“That can wait ‘til tomorrow,” says Thursday frostily, simmering anger heating rapidly towards the boiling point again. Morse gives a distressed frown, freeing himself from his covers and pulling himself up with some effort to sit at the head of the bed with his back to the wall.

“It can’t, sir, I know –”

“Morse, I don’t give a damn what you know,” barks Thursday, voice harsh; Morse stops, staring. Behind him Thursday hears DeBryn still in the act of folding Morse’s clothes. He drives right on regardless. “I’ve told you before – there are rules you can bend and ones you can’t. The ones you and I sit down and agree to for your own safety, you damn well don’t. You’ve done it before and I let it slide, and afterwards you agreed you’d toe the line. So what the hell was this? Were you frustrated with the Gull case? Trying to prove something? Or did you just get impatient and want to cut corners?” 

“Sir –” Morse tries to cut in, doubtless full of reasons – he always has reasons. Reasons he knew best, reasons this one mattered more than any agreement, reasons he had to take a risk. 

“I honestly don’t care,” Thursday blazes on, too furious to listen. “I don’t give a tinker’s cuss why you broke your word, only that you did. And the consequence of that is that I don’t have to listen to whatever it was you think you found. Will that stop you? If it doesn’t, I can and will remove you from the Force – I mean it Morse. The one thing I know for sure is that I’m never going to pull another weapon out of your hand – not because you ignored your safety.” 

He finds very suddenly that he’s towering over Morse, very nearly shouting at him as he pours the vitriol of his fear and rage over the lad – all the anger he hadn’t even meant to show, not today. 

“Easy, inspector,” mutters DeBryn beside him. Thursday takes a breath and a step back, consciously relaxing his posture. 

On the bed Morse is shivering now, staring at him with a shocked expression. Thursday notices for the first time how washed-out he looks in his white shirt under the grey-white duvet; an almost tubercular pall. He licks his lips quickly, closing his eyes as if trying to pull his thoughts together, and then opens them. “I need you to listen to me. Please. I didn’t intend to read the dead girl – Philippa?” 

“Philippa Johnson,” allows Thursday. “Fell on her, did you?” he asks, dryly. Morse gives him a hurt look.

“No, sir. I went up ahead of you into her room and started looking through her things. Her papers, her photographs. Some of the things she had unpacked. She seemed to be studying chemistry, didn’t have many friends, kept a journal –”

“I don’t want to hear about the case, Morse,” interrupts Thursday. Morse swallows, but nods.

“While I was going through her things I was reading them, of course. I can’t explain it really, or I couldn’t then, but something started to happen. I began to feel an affinity with her, a closeness. Like we had known each other, perhaps, or were drawn to each other. The more of her things I handled, the more I felt it, especially in the things with strong traces of her – photos, her diary and so on. Those also conveyed a mixture of happiness and worry,” he adds quickly, clearly afraid Thursday will cut him off again. 

“I can’t say that something _made_ me read her; that would be untrue. But I didn’t consciously choose to do it either, and I certainly didn’t do it for any of the reasons you gave. After reading her belongings it just seemed … natural, like the obvious next thing to do and I followed through on that assumption without being able to register the reasons not to. I’m sorry, I can’t explain it any more than that. Except that I know why I did it, now. And I know who killed her, and why.” With the last two sentences, Morse has curled inwards, drawing his knees up closer to his body and his arms in to cross tightly over his chest. He’s staring at the foot of his bed, eyes unwavering.

Thursday feels the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Morse speaks with absolute certainty, like a sibyl proclaiming. And whatever it is he knows is certain to be horrific. Thursday looks to DeBryn. “Should he be talking about this?”

DeBryn has put the clothes down and come to lean against the windowsill. His demeanour is reserved, but his eyes are more expressive: worry, hurt, sadness. “He can’t skid out again; the Trepolomene prevents it for six hours. Psychologically…” The doctor shrugs.

Thursday looks back to his bagman. “Morse?” 

“You need to know.” Morse doesn’t look up. 

“Alright then. Tell me.”

Morse runs his thumb over the line of his eyebrows, expression tightening. “Philippa Johnson was an empath, sir. That’s why there was a sense of connection when I read her belongings. From her diary it seemed that she had been going out with a man; I only flipped back a little ways, but there were regular mentions about seeing D – her other friends were given by name. That explained both the happiness and the worry on the things she used most frequently, especially the diary.” He pauses, and seeing Thursday’s enquiring glance, elaborates.

“It’s… difficult, sir, in relationships to know when to tell the other person that you’re touched. You have to find out if their views are compatible, which is fraught in and of itself, and if they are you still have to be sure either that you’re in a stable and lasting relationship or that their integrity is beyond question, or both. Because if you break up badly they have an excellent way to hurt you.” Morse takes a slow, deep breath, fingers tightening on the edge of his duvet. 

“I think last night Philippa told her boyfriend. That’s a guess, I suppose, but I’m pretty sure. Regardless, he was furious and disgusted and full of hate and betrayal – and he decided to show her just how much. That’s not a guess.” Morse is curling further inwards now, crumpling down further as he constricts with the memory of the emotions read by Philippa. 

“And Philippa?” asks Thursday, because they’re too far down this road now not to.

Morse shakes his head, eyes very bright with unshed tears; his lips are turned tightly inwards, thin and pale. When he speaks his throat catches the words in a jagged net, reluctant to let them go. “It happened – fast: there was still love, hope. After that, it – she…” 

He falls apart very suddenly, the remains of his composure shattering as the tears come in a torrent and he closes his eyes tightly against them – it has no effect; they seep out from under his lashes to roll down his cheeks in streams. He drops his head to hide his face against his sleeve, shoulders shaking as he sucks in breaths as silently as he can. 

Thursday’s heart constricts painfully in his chest, as if folding inwards on broken glass. It’s been a long time since he had a bagman he gave a damn about, since he let himself take a young copper on who wasn’t just another flash bully looking for promotion and backhanders, and there wasn’t any accident in that. He left London in pieces, and even now that he’s mostly whole, some days he can still feel the glue giving way.

DeBryn is moving closer, but Thursday steps in ahead with a silent look and the doctor lets him. Thursday sits down beside the lad, putting his hand lightly on Morse’s arm. When that’s met with acceptance he settles his weight more comfortably and starts rubbing Morse’s back, like he used to for Joan and Sam when they came home from school in tears after childhood spats. He’s careful all the same not to touch the lad; his anger has whittled away, but the grief and outrage it’s been replaced with is no more pleasant.

Morse calms after about a minute, raising his head and wiping at his face; Thursday hands him a handkerchief which he takes, although his sleeve has already borne the brunt of it. Close-to Thursday can see how exhausted he looks, red-rimmed eyes drooping and losing focus. “You should get some sleep,” Thursday says, glancing at DeBryn, who nods.

“It would be advisable. You’ll probably experience chills and weakness over the next few hours, possibly nausea and shooting pains in your arms and legs. All normal symptoms. You’ll feel better by this afternoon – if you don’t, call me.” He pulls out his notebook and scribbles a number down, tearing out the page and putting it down on Morse’s bedside table. “Alright?”

Morse inclines his head, giving a weak twist of his lips. 

DeBryn slips his hands into his pockets and makes for the door, nodding to Thursday, “I’ll see you shortly, inspector.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Thursday looks back to Morse, still unnaturally flushed but otherwise looking tired and fragile. Such a vast sea of trouble in so unlikely a container. 

“You’re off for the rest of the day,” repeats Thursday. “Do you need someone to come in with food?”

Morse shakes his head wordlessly.

“Alright then. I’ll give you a call later this afternoon, or stop by, to see how you’re doing. We’re not done our talk, but I should’ve heard you out first before jumping down your throat. That can wait for tomorrow, though.”

“Yessir,” Morse slurs. He’s starting to slump down; Thursday realises that his presence is probably acting as more of a deterrent than anything to the lad getting his head down and stands, stepping out into the main living space to look at the bookcase full of albums. 

“Do you want me to put a record on for you?”

Morse shakes his head, weakly this time, wiping at his eyes. “Just want’a sleep,” he mumbles, pushing himself down in his bed and settling in under the covers. 

Thursday ghosts back into the doorway to look down at the young man lying crookedly in his unmade bed. Sometimes the effort of keeping him whole seems a Sisyphean task. How could it be anything but, when so often it’s Morse himself who seems to be the instrument of his own destruction? 

Thursday stops in Morse’s bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror – greying hair a mess, face clawed with the passage of too many intense emotions in too short a timeframe, eyes carrying the look he saw in them constantly in the last months in London. He looks ancient and feels older still, powerless and irrelevant. 

He sighs and does the only thing he can: combs his hair back into proper order, then pads softly out of the silent flat. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Back at Philippa Johnson’s lodging house, Thursday sits at the desk chair and leafs through the dead girl’s diary while DeBryn conducts his initial examination. As Morse had said, starting about eight months back she begins having meetings with D. At first they’re very tentative – “Met D for coffee, chatted; is he interested?” “Coffee with D again, what does it mean?” “D took me to lunch, unsure about this.” “Saw D again, can it work?” 

But after about a month she stops prevaricating and the entries become brighter and less uncertain. “Dinner with D, lovely evening.” “Afternoon with D, we laughed for hours together; sometimes I feel quite mad with him.” “Spent last night with D, he makes me so happy.”

This continues for a few months, until she again becomes bogged down in uncertainty. “I can’t go on lying to D,” “D says the only things that matter to him are honesty and integrity; what will he say when he finds out?” “Oh God, have I ruined this already by keeping this from him for so long?” “D’s dreadfully old-fashioned sometimes – what if he can’t accept me?”

Thursday closes the book, eyes tight with pain. By the bed, DeBryn looks back over his shoulder. “Time of death between nine and midnight. Cause most likely the blow to the head, but it will need the autopsy to be certain.” 

Thursday sets the spine of the book down against his knee, looking at the body of the young woman on the bed – a year younger than Joan. “She said he was old-fashioned, maybe too old-fashioned to accept her. That was enough to warrant this?” 

DeBryn rises from his crouched position by the body, tucking away his pencil and notebook. “I’m sure you are speaking hypothetically. Nevertheless, when I think of the phrase ‘old-fashioned’ in relation to empaths – particularly women – the torrent of exploitative literature featuring them comes to mind.”

“Literature’s a generous term,” says Thursday. He’s seen enough of it from his work with Vice – and printed word isn’t all there is. Just as there’s a titillating element to vampirism, empaths have come to feature prominently in explicit material, often otherwise prim young women taking enjoyment in the receipt of sexual favours. Over the years it’s transcended illegal material to become something of a shared cultural understanding, bordering in some cases on fantasy. He’s always avoided bringing it up with Morse; no reason to inflict that kind of embarrassment on either of them.

“So what then, he didn’t like the idea that she might be enjoying what they shared? That’s…” Thursday’s face twists in disgust.

“Probably old-fashioned enough to explain this,” agrees DeBryn. “But as to its veracity, I could not comment.”

Thursday stands, taking the book with him. “Let me know what you find.”

“Of course.” 

\----------------------------------------------------

Thursday has a brief conversation with Mrs Lovelace regarding her newest lodger – quiet, polite, no visitors – and her own hours the night before – out all night visiting her daughter who just had a baby. “And I came home this morning to find the poor girl lying like that, her pillow all over blood – just think, had I been here I might have been murdered in my bed too! It makes me quite faint to think of it,” she finishes, swaying dramatically. Thursday helps her sit down and leaves her with Strange, ignoring the constable’s forlorn look.

After that he visits Philippa’s college, speaking to the Dean to put in place the motions necessary to gather her family’s address and her class schedule. 

He interviews her fellow students after lunch, as well as her professors and her tutor. All of them appear horrified by the news of her death, none show any sign of knowing that she had been in a relationship, or of having any idea who it was that she might have been seeing. 

Her parents live in Devon; he leaves the notification to the local police, with explicit instructions to ask whether she had a boyfriend or any men in her life whose names began with D. The Johnsons, he hears back, are devastated by the news but firm in their understanding that their daughter wasn’t seeing anyone and had no male friends at home whose names began with D. Her school friends were all female.

\---------------------------------------------------------

It’s dark by the time Thursday finishes the initial paperwork on Philippa. He stops by a fish and chip shop, then drives on to Morse’s. 

Morse opens the front door in his shirtsleeves, looking distinctly rumpled but entirely awake and alert. He brightens at the sight of Thursday, stepping back to let the inspector in.

“Can’t stay,” says Thursday, tactically, unwilling to discuss work tonight, “Thought you might be hungry.” He hands the newspaper-wrapped packet to Morse.

“Thank you, sir.” Morse turns it over in his hands absently, fingers skating over the print. “Any progress?”

“That can wait for tomorrow. If you’re going to be well enough?”

The corners of Morse’s mouth pull downwards slightly. “I’m fine. Everything’s worn off.”

“Right. Don’t worry about fetching me – I’m not sure whether Sergeant Jakes will be back or not, but I’ll work that out with him.”

“Really sir, I’m fine,” insists Morse, irritation creeping into his voice now. 

“Glad to hear it,” says Thursday, with deliberate calm. “But I don’t need to be coordinating the two of you and myself tomorrow at half past seven.”

Morse nods after a moment, capitulating. “Alright.” He shifts his grip on the packet, heat from the oil doubtless beginning to burn his fingers. 

Thursday glances at it. “You’d better eat that before it gets cold. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Morse steps back inside and lets the door close behind him. Thursday, suddenly feeling unaccountably exhausted, returns to the Jag and decides to take it home. He can take himself in tomorrow. Less work for everyone.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Thursday arrives at the nick the next morning after a fitful sleep haunted by old nightmares to find Jakes at his desk, and Morse’s overcoat on the hat stand behind the constable’s desk, but the chair empty. He checks in with his sergeant, still sounding stuffy and raspy, then heads to his office to see whether any report from DeBryn is waiting for him. 

He’s only just sat down and seen DeBryn’s report, in with the first post, when Morse flies in, shutting the door behind him.

“You haven’t booked anyone,” the constable announces, somewhere between confused and affronted. 

Thursday forces himself to take a breath. “Why don’t you have a seat?” he suggests to the constable, currently standing agitatedly behind the interview chairs. 

“Why haven’t you?” asks Morse, all flame and outrage. 

Thursday looks pointedly at the chair, and Morse gives a little huff but seats himself, hands gripping the armrests tightly. He’s replaced the gauze on his hand with much less apparent sticking plaster on the palm; Thursday wonders if he realises what a bugger it’s going to be to get off. 

“I’m considering taking you off this case,” says Thursday, straight-forwardly. “It’s not a reprimand, you’re just too close to it – it’s dangerous for you and for the smooth resolution of the case. You’re walking around with Philippa Johnson’s emotions in your head; we don’t let victims investigate their crimes.”

Morse stares at him incredulously. Thursday notices with a sinking feeling that the lad has gone very still, the way he does right before exploding. 

Sure enough, when Morse speaks it’s with acid in his tone, launching the words back caustically. “That never bothered you before – not when you asked about the others who might’ve burned alive under St Giles; or Mary Tremlett, fifteen, found beaten dead and naked in the woods.” 

“Because they didn’t affect you – they informed your decisions, but they didn’t drive them,” replies Thursday, calmly, burying the doubt and regret he felt subsequently over those snap decisions deep. 

Morse presses his fingers against his temple, tips slowly knifing up into his hair. “Didn’t affect me? It’s horrific. Think of the worst day you’ve ever had, how awful you felt, how even years later remembering it can be vividly agonizing. There’s still no comparison to what they felt, to anyone whose life was ended violently.” He breaks off, looking away towards the far window. “Doing it repeatedly – even regularly... it’s appalling. I do it because it helps, because it solves cases. But it’s awful, every time. No exceptions, no exemptions.” 

He takes a breath, looking back. “As for Philippa Johnson, I’m not a victim. When empaths skid out it happens instantly. I don’t remember anything after touching her until I woke up on the bathroom floor. My memories of the time when I was actually experiencing what she felt are completely gone. The drug they use to shut down the attacks, by necessity, stops us experiencing the foreign emotions. I can remember what I read, and it appals me, but I don’t feel it. Like watching a film – you see it but aren’t part of it.” 

Thursday weaves his fingers together and rests them on his desk. “Even so, your connection to this case is still intense, and being on General Duties it’s difficult to argue for your support now that Jakes is back.”

Morse opens his mouth to protest, and Thursday gives him a hard look; he stops.

“As it is, I’ll let you continue on under two conditions: the first, that you will not read anything – even physical evidence – connected with this case. Even you weren’t aware how you would be affected by it, and that’s what caused this whole disaster. If you think that makes it too difficult for you to proceed, you can take a bye.”

Morse rubs at the edge of the plaster on his palm, but shakes his head. 

“The second: if you in any way show any sign of jeopardizing this case, or of not proceeding by the book, I’ll kick you off it. I’m not in the mood for inventive police work on this one, Morse. We have a suspect and a motive, all we need to do is find him. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Thursday leans back and gets out his pipe. “Very well. Might as well call in Sergeant Jakes; he needs to hear this too.”

He starts tamping down the pipe, looking over DeBryn’s report as he does so while Morse fetches Jakes in. It only confirms what was supposed the day before – Philippa Johnson was killed by a blow to the back of the head, she was raped shortly before her death by someone with a blood type B+, and she was an empath. 

Morse returns with Jakes, who gives them both a searching glance as he sits down. Thursday ignores it; Morse is staring morosely off out the window.

Once the pipe is drawing Thursday summarizes his activities of the day before, including the case details for Jakes’ benefit. With the PM results confirming her status as an empath he’s able to give that as the motive to Jakes; from the diary, he draws a beau starting with D. 

“What about her classmates?” asks Morse, sharply. 

“I spoke with all of those under her tutor. There were two Ds – David and Daniel. Both have girlfriends and alibis for the time in question although, one is breakable.”

“Someone she met outside the university,” suggests Jakes, sketching a line in the air with his cigarette. 

Thursday cants his head in acknowledgement. “Possible, but she wouldn’t have much free time to meet people – her classmates confirmed that. According to them, in their program most of the dating that goes on happens within the college.” 

“Her parents didn’t know anything about him, you said. That points to what – his being too low-brow?”

“Her university file has her as up on a scholarship, I doubt that would have mattered. But the early entries in her diary are very uncertain about the relationship – ‘will it work?’, ‘not sure about this’, that sort of thing. Maybe he was undesirable for some other reason,” Thursday muses. “Criminal type? Too old? Not here permanently?” 

“Or someone who was already in a relationship,” presses Morse, leaning forward. “We should lean on her two classmates.”

“We don’t have proof it was her boyfriend to begin with,” says Jakes, looking at Morse. “Could’ve been anyone – friend helping her unpack, or one of the other lodgers. The evidence’s entirely circumstantial. We don’t even have reason to believe she was killed intentionally.”

“Oh, well, that’s alright then,” spits out Morse, face tightening rapidly towards something worryingly like hatred. “As long as he didn’t _intend_ to kill her. As for the rest, she deserved that, did she? Repayment for burning him?”

Thursday, watching this train wreck very closely, sees the instant Jakes’ composure slips. It only wavers for a moment, but it’s enough for him to catch a glimpse of the naked vulnerability beneath. He’s quite sure Morse doesn’t notice it; for someone apparently gifted in reading emotions the lad can be extraordinarily dense.

“’Course not,” sneers Jakes, equilibrium recovered in less than a second. “If he objected to her, he could’ve just left off shagging her. Punishment enough, from what I hear,” he adds lewdly, throwing fuel on the fire. 

Thursday, beginning to fear bloodshed, stands. “Sergeant Jakes, you’ll come with me back to the college. We’ll interview her classmates again – together, this time, to see if anyone cracks under the group scrutiny. And we’ll see if we can’t get some kind of list of other acquaintances she had outside of college. Morse, the Registrar was supposed to be sending over a list of all college students first thing this morning. I want you to go through it looking for any with names beginning with D. You can check their areas of study against Philippa’s courses to look for potential overlap; I’ve her schedule on my desk somewhere.”

“But sir,” starts in Morse, looking stormy. Thursday glares him down.

“Those are the assignments, constable. Sergeant?” Thursday nods to the door, rising. 

Jakes stands, his usual cheer restored by seeing Morse taken down a peg, and steps out to fetch his coat. Thursday rounds the desk, stopping by Morse, still sitting in his chair.

“If you can’t do the job, Morse, take yourself off the case. I won’t think the lesser – on the contrary, it shows good judgement.”

“I can do the job just fine, sir,” spits Morse, in a low, outraged tone.

“Good. Then prove it.” Thursday sweeps up his hat and coat from the stand and strides out of the office.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Not surprisingly, it takes some time to gather the students together. Thursday and Jakes end up conducting several individual interviews simply to make use of the time, querying in more detail for possible male acquaintances, hobbies Philippa held or places she frequented where she might have met someone, and any hint of unwanted attentions. 

When they do eventually manage to gather the students all together, it’s in a second floor room provided for them by the music department. It’s small and wooden-floored, smelling of chalk and resin, with a blackboard in one corner covered in blank white musical staffs that brings back unfortunate memories of the Gull case. 

The exercise proves to be a waste of time. Either their killer is a talented liar, or he isn’t present in the group; none of them display anything other than they did individually, and no new information surfaces. 

Thursday dismisses the students feeling discouraged; what had initially seemed an open and shut case has completely dried up. He stands by the window overlooking the quad and watches the young men and women file out onto the pavement below. A couple have stayed behind for a moment talking to Jakes; he listens with half an ear, digging for his pipe.

“You might talk to our tutor, Dr Longmore; we all spend a fair bit of time with him. She might have confided in him if something was worrying her,” says the girl, Heather, a close friend of Philippa’s.

Thursday turns at this. “He was supposed to be here today; do you know where he might be?”

Heather and the other student – Stephen, a bit reedy but quite bright, in Thursday’s assessment – turn. Heather smiles just a little. “Not surprising; he’s always late; it’s a bit shocking, really. He makes a special effort for lectures and tutorials – almost always makes those – but otherwise you can count on him turning up half an hour after everyone else.”

“Right…” Thursday glances back out the window and sees a dark-haired figure in robes hurrying across the green grass. “Speak of the devil.” The professor is a young man, hardly thirty, Thursday guessed yesterday during their short meeting. As he reaches the pavement surrounding the edge of the grass, he pauses rather than going into the building, looking to the side. Thursday follows his line of sight, and tenses.

Morse is hurrying along the pavement, face grim, car coat flapping out untidily behind him. He charges right up to Longmore, forcing him up against the wall and out of Thursday’s line of view. 

Cursing under his breath, Thursday slips out past Jakes and the two students. He scrambles through the hall and down the stairs, luckily only a couple of doors away. 

Thursday pulls up just before exiting, coming out slowly and taking stock of the situation as he does so. Morse has corralled Longmore against the building’s stone wall, is holding Philippa Johnson’s diary up between them at an awkward angle. 

“…should’ve searched her flat before leaving,” Morse is saying, roughly, face tight with anger. “She kept a diary, Longmore, and you’re all through it. The whole thing – should she/shouldn’t she, your dates, when should she trust you with the biggest secret in her life? She thought not telling you was killing her,” he snarls, shaking the book. “She was wrong, wasn’t she?”

Longmore tries to push Morse away, expression somewhere between shocked and angry. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he begins, “But if you’re implying a relationship –” 

“I don’t have to _imply_ ,” says Morse, and Thursday starts forward, sensing something remarkably stupid about to happen. “I know. The same way she did; only she didn’t asked the right questions until it was too late. What do you think about the fact that Philippa was an empath?” as he asks the question his left hand shoots out from where it had been fisted in his sleeve, and pins Longmore’s in the folds of his robes. 

Longmore sucks in breath, nostrils flaring and lips rising very slightly to show the tips of his teeth – he restrains himself from pulling away, but the effort is visible. The disgust on his face, however, is far more so. 

“Did what she was really matter so much more than who she was?” asks Morse, staring. “Even now?”

Thursday pauses; out of the corner of his eye he sees Jakes appear and reaches out to stop him from interrupting. He’s just noticed why Morse is holding Philippa’s diary at such an odd angle: to hide his hand.

Longmore stares at Morse for a moment, eyes narrow. Then, like a glass shattering to let out acid, he breaks and the words pour out of him in a vicious hiss. “She was stealing from me for months – my privacy, my secrets, my heart. _Using_ me, like some whore. Every time she touched me she was sneaking into where she had no right to be – where she _knew_ she had no right to be, too ashamed of herself to even tell me. Her death was an accident – she was struggling, out of control, and she hit her head on the bedframe. But it doesn’t change things; she disgusted me – you all do.” He spits at Morse, tearing his hand forcibly free from Morse’s grip. 

Thursday steps forward; Longmore turns and sees him for the first time, eyes widening. He opens his mouth, but Thursday beats him to it. “Alan Longmore, you’re under arrest for the rape and murder of Philippa Longmore. You don’t have to say anything, but anything you do say may be written down and can be used against you in a court of law.” 

Beside him Morse is shaking; he reaches up and wipes the spittle off his face. The act of doing so shows clearly that his hand – both his hands – are gloved in pale surgical gloves. “I’m afraid your confession was obtained partially under false pretenses,” he says acidly, peeling off the gloves. “I’m only human, and I certainly wasn’t reading you. You have Philippa to thank for your arrest.” He snaps the diary shut, face grim.

Longmore stares, wordless. He’s still silent as they turn him to walk him away, leaving the college behind. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

“How on earth did you know it was him – his Christian name is Alan. It was a hell of a risk to take – if you’d been wrong…” Thursday gives Morse a significant look. Kicking Morse off the case might have been the least he’d have done. 

They’re sitting in Morse’s flat at the flimsy dinner table, drinking bottled beer and eating their lunches. Neither a pub nor the canteen at the nick seemed feasible today given the potential topics of conversation. 

Morse puts down his beer and lays his hands on the table, leaning forward to explain. “Looking through her diary again it was clear that she was keeping her relationship a secret – why? There might be reasons to keep a relationship with a student hidden from her parents, but from her close friends? No photos, even? It had to be something more illicit than a student, but almost certainly someone still in college. 

“Going back earlier in the diary, all her entries about Longmore are shortened to Dr L. It makes sense that she would abbreviate it further when she wasn’t certain of his intentions towards her – and by the time she was it had just stuck. Many of their meetings corresponded closely with her tutorial sessions; I was able to get his teaching schedule over the phone – none of their rendezvous overlapped with his other courses. After that, all I needed was proof.” He shrugs. 

“Which you didn’t mind endangering yourself for. I’m not sure when I’ve last seen something quite that daft.”

“It wasn’t really dangerous, sir. When I left the nick I knew you and Jakes – Sergeant Jakes – would be upstairs, and actually you were right there. And once he knew I couldn’t have been reading him it was very likely he’d believe I wasn’t sun-touched: the fact that I admitted it to obtain a confession made it too unlikely.” He says it matter-of-factly, calculatingly. But his eyes, as ever, are less sanguine. Are wide, shadowed, and lost. 

Thursday shifts in his cheap chair, the wood creaking beneath him while the uncomfortable rungs dig into his back. “I asked you before if this was personal, if you were too close to this case, and you said you weren’t. Does that mean this – ‘pretending’ to give your secret away – is something you would do again?” he asks, neutrally. He was, at least, impressed by the fact that Morse was so willing to lie to complete the ruse, and by extension protect himself, but he has no mind to encourage the lad. 

Morse opens his mouth and then closes it again, blinking; whatever he was expecting, it apparently wasn’t this. He runs a finger absently under the edge of his collar as he thinks, straightening the poorly-starched cotton. 

“You told me that there are cases that tear our hearts out,” he begins eventually, eyes on the table. “I’ll never be satisfied seeing a case unsolved, or slowing down investigations to wait for political support or clinching evidence, but I can live with being dissatisfied from time to time. Sometimes – rarely, though… that’s not true. There are cases that can’t go unsolved, ones where trying your best isn’t good enough because they’re tearing your heart out and all that matters is solving them. I don’t mean they’re more important, they’re not – they can’t be, but…” he’s raised a hand to tangle it in his hair, making a complete bird’s nest out of one side of his head as he struggles for words, looking up helplessly at Thursday. 

“You’re allowed to recognise that you have biases, Morse,” says Thursday, kindly. “And given the effort you put into cases you apparently don’t feel personally attached to, I would say you needn’t worry that you’re under-privileging them. Frankly I would be more worried if you didn’t recognize it, or if you truly wanted to be all things to everyone – at least as far as this morning’s performance goes.”

A light blush comes into Morse’s cheeks and he takes a draught of his beer. 

Thursday carries on in a more serious tone. “As far as yesterday is concerned, I’m still less than pleased, but I accept your explanation of events. To see it doesn’t happen again, though, I don’t want you reading anything in close proximity to a corpse without either DeBryn or myself present. If you need to examine something and we’re not there, you can damn well use a handkerchief and say you want fingerprints off it. No ifs ands or buts. Do I make myself clear?” 

Morse nods, face solemn. “Yes, sir.”

“This is bigger than even your health, Morse – it could mean your life, it could mean someone else’s. If you ever skid out because you were careless, or cutting corners, or taking risks, or for any reason choosing not to keep your word, I _will_ consider that reason to remove you from the Force. First and last warning.” 

Morse swallows, but nods again. “I won’t, sir. And if I do – for any reason – and end up putting someone in danger…” he licks his lips, eyes intense, and Thursday has the very sudden desire to knock over his beer, or to break the creaking chair beneath him, or simply to tell Morse to shut his foolish mouth now. Anything to keep the lad from finishing. 

But he does none of these things, and Morse continues on, “I know you would stop me, sir. Whatever the cost to – to myself. That would be alright; better than the alternative. I wouldn’t blame you; I would be grateful,” he says slowly, the last few words falling from his mouth with near reluctance. A pleasant young lad pondering the idea of death, forcing himself to welcome it. 

Thursday’s eyes, however, are focused far in the past. On another pleasant young lad, and the dark streets of London, and blood on his hands. He can feel himself starting to shiver, the lingering chill that comes to him late in the night when he’s been sitting up too long thinking about the old days. 

He’s been trying so hard this whole time to keep it out of his head, to keep himself in the present, to stop the undertow from catching him. But the parallel has been so close, nearly unavoidable, and now Morse has gone and pushed him right into the current. 

“Stop it,” hisses Thursday, harshly, rising. “Don’t ask me that, as though –” _As though you were worth nothing. As though it would cost me nothing._

_As though I could do it._

“Just – don’t,” he repeats, flatly. 

He grabs his hat and coat up off the back of his chair and shakes his head at Morse as the lad stands. “I’ll see you back at the nick. Finish your meal.” He walks out, leaving behind his half-eaten food and Morse, staring in confusion at his back. 

Thursday descends the stairs at a near-jog and comes out into the cold of the November afternoon, the chill refreshing against his flushed skin. He climbs into the Jag and puts the keys in the ignition, but after a moment takes his hand off them and rests his palms on the wheel instead. 

The only image in his head is Mickey Carter, lying on the London cobbles, face white as marble and eyes staring lifelessly up at the stars. He slowly lowers his head to rest against his hands, and waits for the shivers to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be no chapter for ROCKET, as I have nothing to say about it which I have not already said. The next chapter will be completely alternate reality.


	7. cave canem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, in all Strange's nightmares, it was always him being turned. Never a colleague, a friend. 
> 
> And never, a tiny part of him can't help but think, anyone as uncooperative as Morse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. Chapter. SO MANY REWRITES. I have no explanations for myself. I really hope next chapter will be faster.

As always, the radiators in the small office-space allotted to Uniform are cranked up, hissing and rattling as the steam pours through, turning the cramped space into a sweat-box. Above the windows overlooking the car park the more wary men – the ones who have dragged victims out of the grip of revenants, or walked the catacombs, or skirted the eaves of the Wychwood – have hung their own seals; they flitter and twist in the warm rising current of air. 

Strange has heard some of the other PCs griping about them, young men who have seen other stations – mostly newer, slicker digs with sparse, uniform seals. It isn’t a view he shares; Strange likes Cowley’s eccentricities, likes the sturdy feel of the painted-over horseshoes and hand-carved sigils in wooden doorframes – they’ve been there for decades, and they’ve worked. And he likes that Cowley doesn’t drown out those who have seen too much to place their faith solely in just the nick’s own defences for the sake of aesthetics. 

Strange is there this afternoon catching up on paperwork, has managed to eke out a few precious hours to fill out the backlog of forms and court statements waiting for him. He’s only managed to get through the first few, charges for petty vandalism (drunk undergrads again) when he hears someone mutter, “Look out, here comes the brain box.”

He glances up to find that, sure enough, Morse is just coming through the door, coat on over his jacket. He stops just past the doorway and glances around, met mostly with silence and a few half-hearted nods. 

With most of their time spent patrolling or otherwise out of the station, there are no permanent desk assignments for Uniformed officers. Six spaces with type-writers, phones and the various requisite office supplies have been shoved into the tiny, sweltering room for the men to do their paperwork. As with all shared property, the lives of the equipment here are nasty, brutish and short. Strange has secured a mostly-operational typewriter at the cost of a stable chair.

Morse’s sharp gaze settles finally on Strange, and he cuts through the tight press of desks and chairs and makes his way over. 

“I’ve some interviews to conduct, and I need someone from Uniform along. I’ve cleared it with Sergeant Tapping,” he announces.

“Right,” says Strange, as though he weren’t in the middle of something. He pulls his form out of the typewriter, puts it in his file-folder, and joins Morse – already waiting by the door.

\------------------------------------------------------

Morse’s interviews, the DC explains as they get into the Jag, are with Cowley’s seediest automobile repair shops. Still on the trail of the serial car thefts, he now believes whoever is lifting the cars is re-conditioning them locally before moving them elsewhere to sell. 

On the one hand, it seems farfetched to Strange. On the other hand, probably less farfetched than many of Morse’s other theories which have come up trumps. 

“Still, I can see why you wanted company,” says Strange, looking at the list of addresses. They’re planted down in the bottom end of Cowley, beyond even the factories and workshops, a blue-collar, bare-knuckles district where the city’s organized crime festers. 

Morse makes a face, eyes on the road. “Thursday insisted.”

Strange glances at him. “Alright, don’t need to sound so broken-hearted, matey.”

Morse blinks, coming over apologetic. “No – I didn’t mean….” He sighs. “I don’t need mother-henning, is all. From him, I mean,” he adds, hastily. 

Strange considers that highly debatable, but knows better than Morse when to keep his mouth shut. “Well, I’m here now. Might as well have a run through some questions while we’re on the road, what d’you say?” He pulls _A Policeman’s Rights and Duties Under British Law_ from his tunic pocket. 

Morse’s lips twitch lightly. “I suppose so,” he allows, and Strange flips the book open. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The repair shops are really part mechanics, part scrap yards, surrounded by strong fencing and run by small crews of men dressed in stained clothes. Probably quite a number of them are touched; Strange doesn’t voice the obvious comment about junk yard dogs, looking warily at the sky instead. There’s a full moon tonight, and Morse seems blithely unaware of it as he drags them through Cowley’s underbelly while the sky slowly darkens. 

If Morse is hoping to prompt either a spontaneous confession or the arrival of some piece of clenching evidence, Strange doesn’t notice either. Mostly he just notices a series of interviews with large, impatient, only marginally-cooperative men which seem to lead nowhere. And by the end of it the sky is dark, he hasn’t finished any of his paperwork, and Morse doesn’t seem any forwarder on his case. But for some reason, the DC doesn’t seem frustrated.

“Fancy a pint?” asks Strange, as they get into the car. 

Morse turns the engine over, glancing at him as he switches on the headlights. “Just one more,” he says, face mostly in darkness. 

“Are you kidding? It’s after hours, matey, they’ll have buggered off home. Which is what we should be doing. Have you checked the sky recently?”

Morse leans forwards to look up, frowning. The full moon is hanging low over the steeples of Oxford, painting a pale band on the Jag’s bonnet. “We’ll be quick. I’m sure someone will still be in,” he says, confidently, pulling out into the road. 

“You’re up to something, aren’t you?” 

“It’s a small neighbourhood; news travels fast. Two coppers talking to everyone in the business is bound to get around.”

“You suspected this lot all along,” accuses Strange.

“I thought it would be helpful if they were… nervous,” replies Morse, pulling around into a narrow alley between two tall brick buildings. The headlights reveal the mouth to be blocked by a set of bins. Morse makes an irritated noise, but stops the car. “We’re close enough here, we can walk. Come on.” 

They get out, locking the Jag behind them, and make their way out past the bins into the wider street beyond. The night air is biting against Strange’s cheeks, temperature near the freezing point, and he pulls on his gloves and slips his hands into the pockets of his heavy woollen uniform coat. Winter is rolling in, teeth bared, and Uniform have long since learned how to greet it. 

Morse has shoved his bare hands down deep in the pockets of his lighter autumn coat, arms stiff at his sides as he walks along with a hurried step. The street is short, dark, and deserted. At the end on the left is the long fence of the mechanic’s shop and scrap yard. The two tall poles standing in the yard casting wide circles of light down are the only light in the empty street unlit by any city lampposts – too industrial, too underpopulated, too poor, there are many possible reasons. 

The gate into the yard is nearly at the end of the street; beyond it are just some parked cars and an empty lot. The scrap-metal doors are closed, chained shut and locked with a padlock. Morse goes up and pounds on them, then shoves them until the chain clangs against the metal. “This is DC Morse, Oxford CID. I need to speak to Mr Fairfax,” he shouts, voice disappearing into the emptiness beyond the gates. There’s no answer, not a cough, not a creak, not a sound. 

“I know he’s in there,” fumes Morse, kicking the door.

From the darkness at the end of the road, there comes a low, rolling growl. Strange, about to reach out to Morse, feels himself freeze. That’s exactly how it feels – his body stiffens without his thought or permission, muscles holding him hostage as years and years of horror stories inject pure fear into his bloodstream. There’s not a child alive who hasn’t been raised terrified of hearing a growl behind them on a moonlit night; like all unconquerable fears, the only way to live with it is to build up the belief it will never happen. 

Beside him, Morse turns to look. Strange can’t – can’t move, can’t blink, can’t breathe. If he doesn’t, if he does none of those things and lets no time pass for him then this can’t be happening, there can be no monster in the darkness behind him and it can’t take him. 

Morse gives a quiet, sick kind of groan.

“Strange, run,” he whispers, voice so thick Strange can hardly make sense of the words. And then he is barrelling into Strange, shoving him as he moves and shouting, “ _Run, now!_ ”

The movement shatters his immobility, and once he is moving all he can do is run because he knows what’s behind him, he can hear the clicking claws on the asphalt, and he knows what will happen if it catches him. 

Morse sprints beside him as they fly down the street, peeling off towards the alleyway. He grabs Strange’s hand as they go, forcing something into it – “Here, take them, take them.” 

Then they’re rounding the corner, and Strange realises with a feeling like a knife ripping up through his ribs and straight into his heart that the car is locked. He nearly collides with one of the bins, barely skids past it and makes it to the side of the Jag, teeth clenched against the imminent feeling of fangs in the back of his neck. 

Strange fumbles with the keys in his hand, frantically trying to find the right one. He shoves one in the lock, finds it won’t go, tries to pull it out with sweat-soaked hands and drops the key ring. 

Behind him there’s a snarl and a thud; he looks up as he snatches the keys up off the ground and stares even as he stands and starts trying to shove them back in the lock. Morse has thrown himself awkwardly into the werewolf, all legs and elbows, the two of them slamming into the brick wall. 

Strange gets the door unlocked and yanks it open. “Morse – _Goddammit_ , Morse,” he pants, forcing himself to pause against the millennia of instinct screaming at him to flee, but Morse is scrambling to his feet. Strange dives into the car, slamming his door shut and reaches across to unlock the other side; Morse piles in behind the wheel. 

Strange is already shoving the keys in the ignition; an instant later Morse is gunning the engine and slamming it into reverse, and the Jag squeals out even as a dark shadow rises from the alley floor to scratch at the bonnet momentarily before losing its purchase. 

They peel out into the road, Morse hunched low over the steering wheel as he shifts forward out of reverse and they cut north towards Oxford. They’re both of them silent for nearly a block, Strange waiting for his heart to crawl back out of his throat. Then: 

“Jesus Christ, matey, that was…” he shakes his head, shivering. 

Morse is relaxing up out of his stooped position; he loosens his hands on the wheel and lets them slip down to rest a little lower on its sides. “Guess he didn’t want to speak to me,” he says, shakily. 

Strange snorts, still full of nervous energy from the adrenaline. It’s dialed back from the painfully strong electric current that burned through him in the alley to a more manageable surfeit of vigour. Right now he feels like launching into something purely physical for the fun of it – a race, a brawl, a football match – and flooring his opponent. 

Next to him, Morse is taking them back to town, having slowed their pace from frantic to regular traffic speed. Strange glances at him, and his bold mood takes an abrupt check. There’s a dark stain on Morse’s left sleeve. 

He waits until they pass under a streetlamp, eyes glued to Morse’s wrist. He feels as though ice has been poured into his heart, full of tiny shards, all sharp and brittle round the edges. Morse’s overcoat and the white sleeve beneath it are dyed red with glinting patches of blood. 

Slowly, carefully, he slips his hand down into his pocket and finds the silver shilling he keeps there, tightens his fist around it and pulls his hand out again. 

“Morse,” he says, mouth dry. “I think you should stop the car.” 

God above, and then what? Somehow in all his childhood nightmares, in all the schoolboy stories, in all the worst-case scenarios he imagined for himself when he entered the Force it was always him being turned. Always him losing his career, his friends, his place in society. Never a colleague – a friend. 

Morse looks at him, confused. “Why?”

Strange swallows. He can feel the sweat gathering under his collar, prickling his skin like dozens of needles. “Your sleeve, mate. You – you need help, right; we’ll radio for an ambulance…”

Morse looks down, raises his arm, wincing slightly. “It’s alright, I can –”

“You need to pull over,” says Strange, some of his fear bleeding into his voice. “Now.” The moon is full overhead; Morse could turn anytime. And he’s not sure he can imagine a worse scenario than being trapped in a vehicle with a newly turned wolf. 

Morse looks at him for a moment, eyes wide enough to show a circle of white around his blue irises. Then he checks back over his shoulder, looking at the street behind them. “Strange, listen, I’m not going to turn,” he says, quickly but with surprising calm. “We’re only a few blocks away, I can’t –”

“You don’t know that; it can take hours sometimes. You think he was the type to be on Quicksilver?” snaps Strange, irritated despite himself by Morse’s outright denial – nothing can ever be easy. He’s nearly panting to feed his heart’s relentless thrumming; its constant pounding in his head is dizzying. “Stop the car.”

“You have silver, don’t you? All coppers carry silver and iron,” says Morse, ignoring him. He holds his hand out, palm up, his eyes back on the road. “Give it to me.”

“That doesn’t prove –” begins Strange.

“I’ll pull the goddamn car over when it’s safe, Strange,” says Morse, fingers twitching. “First thing that happens when I do is you get out – and if he’s been following us, then what? A wolf can match B-road traffic for a few blocks. Give me the silver.”

Strange drops the shilling into Morse’s blood-specked hand, notes the way he takes it without any sign of pain or surprise. He continues holding his hand out where Strange can see it, coin nestled tight between his thumb and his palm. 

Morse licks his lips, still staring straight ahead. “Good. Now listen. You’re not in any danger, and I’m not going to turn. I’m not going to,” he continues, speaking louder when Strange tries to interrupt, “because I’m already touched, Strange. Sun-touched.”

Strange’s half-furious, half-terrified protests die on his lips, the restless violence growing alarmingly within him suddenly disappearing as if it had never been. He looks at the detective, driving one-handed and staring stiffly out the windscreen. 

A shiver runs down his spine as Strange starts to piece together what Morse’s words mean. That the man sitting beside him, already an awkward outsider in the station’s world of deals and strategic friendships, is far more than that. Is something foreign, a soul warped by magic to see what’s hidden away in hearts and minds. 

“You – _you…_?” bleats Strange, too taken aback to form anything more coherent.

“You can radio through to Thursday if you don’t believe me. Or DeBryn,” he says, and Strange realises all of the sudden that Morse is stiff with fear. Of him. 

“Well I suppose it explains how you’ve been solving all these ruddy cases – a little telepathy could hardly go amiss,” Strange manages, falling back into the corner of his seat to give Morse space, the tension relaxing out of his no longer fear-wound muscles.

Morse blinks, and to Strange’s surprise actually gives a short breath of laughter. “Hah – no. Empath.” He looks over, eyes searching, anxious.

Strange has to bite his lip to stop his mouth flapping open, soundlessly. What finally emerges, not much more helpfully, is, “An empath? You?” His voice sounds helpless to his own ears, confronted with what seems a ridiculous proposal. The idea of Morse as a thought-reader makes sense, has almost a certain rightness to it. The notion that he has some preternatural understanding of what lies in men’s hearts simply seems laughable – he hasn’t even noticed the fact that he’s snubbed most of the PCs in the nick half a dozen times over. 

“You’d like to get out now,” says Morse, flatly, misreading him entirely. 

“What? No – no! Hell, Morse, it’s alright by me, whichever you are – seer, even, although I could hardly see you tipping your hand to that. I just meant… I thought… you’re not really what I pictured.” He tips his helmet off into his lap, burying his head in his hands; his hair is still damp with sweat, and it spikes up about his fingers. “I’m making a right hash of this, aren’t I?” 

“A bit,” agrees Morse, not unkindly. They continue in silence for a minute, Strange feeling too awkward to speak, Morse apparently unwilling to. He’s tapping the silver shilling against the gear shift absently, picking out no rhythm that Strange recognizes. Finally, as they start crossing from Cowley into Oxford, moving from brick to limestone, he clears his throat. 

“I can’t go back to the nick like this. I’ll stop by my flat and get out, and you’ll have to take the car back. We can go in after Fairfax tomorrow. I’ll give this back to you then; I’ll have to clean it,” he adds, holding the shilling up. 

Strange sits up. “But,” he begins, and seeing Morse glance over sharply, falls back a ways. “You can’t just drop something like this on a bloke and then disappear,” he protests earnestly. “Besides, you’ll need help with that arm.”

Morse swivels slowly to look at him, as though trying to read him without contact. In the poor light Morse’s eyes are quite dark, the colour of the ocean under a grey sky. He’s staring at Strange when a horn sounds behind them – the signal’s changed to green. His head snaps around and he sets them off with a jerk, the Jag protesting grumpily. 

“Alright.” It’s not a resounding show of gratitude, but Strange hardly expected more. He turns off the main road, heading towards the Thames and his flat.

\------------------------------------------------------------

Strange has been here before; occasionally they go over the fittings here, when they – Morse – can’t stand the raucousness of a pub. Strange lives in a converted attic over his parent’s home, and while he suffers no embarrassment from it it’s much further from the nick than Morse’s flat, making Morse’s the fall-back of choice. 

Some previous occupant (Strange can’t imagine Morse indulging in home decorating) chose for reasons best known to themselves to paint the walls of the entire flat a dark green, casting the space into deep shadow even when all the lights are on. It gives the space a small and gloomy air, scarcely improved by the random cluttering of mismatched cheap furniture and random utensils and effects. The flat is obviously lacking in storage, and Morse appears to have no gift or interest in solving this problem in any sort of attractive manner – he has simply stacked his belongings out in the open: kitchen utensils in buckets on a shelf by the dinner table, tools and spare mechanical items in a box in the bottom of his bookcase, and all over completely random bits and bobs scattered as if picked up and deposited by a gale – here a light-bulb, there a stick of chalk or a couple of chestnuts. 

It is entirely the sort of place an eccentric would choose to inhabit, Strange has always thought, and in which case it fits its occupant well enough. 

Tonight Morse crosses the threshold and heads straight for the kitchen, returning with a pair of glasses in his good hand and a bowl of water in the other. He sits down at the table and nods to the fireplace. “There’s a bottle of scotch on the mantle.”

Strange, standing rather awkwardly in the doorway, finds the bottle – standing between a framed watercolour of gentle green rolling hills, and a ball of twine – and brings it over. 

Morse has shed his coat and jacket, and is rolling up his sleeve to reveal several shallow bloody scores on his forearm just above his wrist. They’ve dug in right over his tattoo; bad luck, not that it matters. He lowers his whole hand and arm in past the bite, grimacing, and starts washing out the gouges carefully with his other hand. He glances up as he does so; Strange, feeling suddenly conspicuous standing beside the table, sits down and pours out the glasses. 

“What do you want to know?” Morse grits out, almost between his teeth, back straight and shoulders tense.

Strange looks at him askance, glass halfway to his lips. He puts it down again, slowly. “This isn’t the bloody inquisition, mate – it’s just me. I told you: sun-touched or not, it doesn’t make a difference to me. I just don’t want to be locked out, not if you need help.” 

Morse swallows, sharp eyes slipping closed momentarily. “Yes. Right. I’m – sorry, Strange.” He sighs, pulling his good hand out of the water and drying it momentarily on his handkerchief before resting his forehead against it. The tension bleeds out of his shoulders as he curls over the table, sketching a long curve of uncertainty and tiredness. 

“What did you think I wanted?” presses Strange, a little taken aback by this lack of trust. 

Morse shrugs. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, voice slightly muffled.

“Doesn’t it? I only wanted –”

Morse’s head rises, eyes flashing. “Yes, I know, now. But half the men in the nick would goad me with obscene questions about my private life – and they would be the safer half. You know what happened to Philippa Johnson; there’s a reason we keep our secrets.”

Strange’s breath catches in his throat at the words, not just at what they represent but at the vehemence behind them. The real anger, cold and clean as exposed bone. He stares for a moment, deeply shocked, then pushes out his chair. “Should I go?” he asks, making to stand. 

Beside him Morse stills suddenly, sitting at his decrepit table with one hand in a bowl of bloody water, grasping a glass of scotch with the other. The anger falls from his face like a mask dropping away, leaving him looking hurt and hollow. “No. No.” He drops his head back into his hand, rubbing at his forehead. “Christ, Strange, I’m not myself; ignore me.”

Strange privately thinks he probably is, more than he knows, but declines to comment on it. “Is it the Philippa Johnson business?” he asks. Morse stops breathing for a moment; when he starts again, he turns around to fetch something off the shelf behind him, back to Strange.

“What do you know about that?” he asks, carefully. He picks up a bottle and returns with it; rubbing alcohol.

“I heard you arrested the bloke who did it, and how. If Jakes didn’t already think you were destined for the looney bin, he does now. Although I think he almost admired it, despite himself.”

Morse’s lip curls and he takes a sharp swallow from his glass. “Jakes drinks with the Reductionists; I’ve seen him down the pub. I don’t give a damn what he thinks.”

“He drinks with whoever pays him, matey. Don’t think it’s a question of philosophy, just business.”

“Business in what?” asks Morse acidly, pouring alcohol out onto his handkerchief and hissing as he begins to swab at the cuts. “Any bribe from them is hatred or violence towards someone.”

“Steady on,” says Strange, taken aback. “Sure, they get worked up at those meetings of theirs and things can get a bit rowdy on the street afterwards, but they mostly just hand out those pamphlets – disgusting, but not violence.”

Morse is staring at him as though he’s said something completely balmy, or worse, like he’s a fool. “Sometimes, I still forget how… _insulated_ this town is,” Morse says at last, sounding almost tired. He returns to the table slowly, slouching down into his chair and resting his forehead against the side of his hand. “Up in the North, Strange, the Reductionists don’t hold singsongs and hand out pamphlets. They raise dogs. Hunting dogs, bred for their noses. And if they feel that there’s too much petty crime, or an unforgivable wrong’s been committed, or even if one of the big men takes it into their heads that there are too many people about they don’t like the look of, then you’ll hear those dogs running loose on the wold. And the Reductionists will be right behind them with their brands and their clubs and their guns, and whatever poor fool they found to play scapegoat will be dead long before morning.”

What Strange knows of Morse’s past would fill a note card – and it would be headed DC Morse. Until now, he had put that down to sheer stubborn anti-socialness on Morse’s part. The much grimmer reason behind his silence strikes Strange like a blow.

“Wild hunts,” says Strange, throat suddenly very dry. Every copper knows about them. They still take place in those parts of the country where the old ways are strong, the wilderness is vast and the law is weak in the face of fear. They’re one of those unspoken truths that goes ignored in the more modern corners of Britain, unacknowledged from shame and helplessness, softened by the usual balms: _But it doesn’t happen here_ , and _We would never allow that_ , and _Perhaps they_ were _guilty._

“Centuries ago it was moon-touched who hunted humans. The Reductionists say they’ve reclaimed the hunt, have brought strength back to those who deserve it, are chasing away fear. They are no better than their predecessors, and their motives are no less bloody.” He raises his head, eyes tired. “Tell me now I have no cause to hate them.” He finishes his drink in one go and pours himself another; Strange still has a good two fingers left in his. 

“I believe you, Morse. But here, they’re just… scared fools looking for safety and purpose.”

“Then they should have been stronger,” dismisses Morse, pitilessly, with the unilaterality of a man who has never needed a crutch. “They should have found the courage to believe in something other than fear.”

“And Alan Longmore?” asks Strange. The nick’s been buzzing with the case, less now than a week ago, but murder is always sensational. The murder of an empath by her lover has produced far more gossip than he would ever reveal to Morse, most of it scurrilous. “What was he?”

“A fanatic, you mean?” asks Morse, bitterly. “No. Just your garden-variety bigot, mind cemented firmly shut.  
‘All, all of a piece throughout:  
Thy chase had a beast in view;  
Thy wars brought nothing about;  
Thy lovers were all untrue.’” 

He tosses away his handkerchief, taking another deep drink, then gets up. He crosses the room in crisp strides, navigating around the cheap furniture strewn in his path, and disappears into the lav. He returns a moment later with a small cardboard box filled with bandages, gauze pads and mostly-empty bottles of pills. “Left-overs,” he explains carelessly, dropping it on his knees as he sits down; Gull’s knife in his side didn’t come cheap.

Morse fishes out a clean pad of gauze easily large enough to fit over all the wounds, and a roll of bandages. He applies the gauze carefully; Strange picks up the bandages and untucks the end. Morse looks over at him assessingly, before proffering his arm. 

“Mind you don’t touch me.” At Strange’s look, he expands, “It should be clean, but better to be safe.”

Strange starts unrolling the bandage along Morse’s pale, freckled arm, careful to keep the tension even and the lines of the gauze straight. “And if I did? What would it tell you?” he asks, curiously. The old songs give enough names to it – heart thieving, skimming secrets. Silly, nursery-rhyme stuff which nevertheless costs lives. 

Morse straightens slightly, turning to look at Strange head-on with his clear blue eyes. “It would tell me, Jim Strange, all that you are, and all that you have been, and perhaps if you live your life true to form, all that you will be.”

Strange feels his mouth fall open, all the tension going out of the rolled bandage in his hand as he stares. 

A smile breaks out across Morse’s face and he folds inwards with an almost silent laugh. “I’m sorry, Strange, your face.” He pulls himself together as Strange, only a little embarrassed and working hard to disguise it, re-tightens the bandage. “No; nothing so sinister, or so impressive. Not your thoughts, past, truth or lies. Simply at this moment, what you are feeling.” He licks his lips, then carefully extends his other hand, palm down. 

Strange doesn’t think, doesn’t allow himself to fall into the cycle of doubt and questions. He simply rests his hand overtop Morse’s. It would have been poetic for there to be some sensation: a flood of warmth or cold, a tingle of nerves, the raising of goose-pimples. But Morse’s hand feels no different than any other; dry, warm and completely unremarkable. 

“Curiosity, uncertainty, friendship, concern, if you’re interested. But you already know it,” says Morse, removing his hand. “It isn’t a notable party trick.”

“Don’t know that I’d say that,” says Strange softly. He doesn’t feel so much shocked as just a little dazed – even knowing full well what Morse is, what he can do… There’s something surreal about it. But perhaps that’s just the newness of this knowledge. 

Strange finishes wrapping the bandage and produces his knife to cut the end of the gauze free from the roll, ties it off as neatly as he can. “There,” he says, depositing the bandage back in the box and his knife in his pocket. 

Morse inspects it briefly and seems pleased with it; not high praise from someone who Strange happens to know only irons his shirts because his guv’nor got after him for it. He scoops up the shilling from the table and trudges into the kitchen; there’s the sound of the sink running. A moment later he returns, drying it on the front of his shirt.

“You can have this back,” he says, handing it over. 

It’s still slightly damp, the metal cold in Strange’s grip. He turns it over in his hands, staring at the worn surface. Looks from it to Morse’s newly-bandaged arm.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” Somehow, over the past half-hour, he’s become almost resigned to the fact. Here, in the light and safety of Morse’s flat, his mind has finally relaxed enough to begin to fully process the memories of the frantic dash through the street. To examine in detail the sound of claws on pavement, the thirsty pain of aching lungs, the hoarseness in Morse’s voice, the image of six legs scrabbling for purchase on concrete. Just the memory of it sends fear’s knife twisting sharply in his heart again, slicing painfully through his chest with each beat. 

Morse follows the line of his sight. “No one takes a mauling intentionally, Strange.” He sits down, packing away the mess he’s made on the table as he speaks. 

“You know what I mean – you gave me the keys, stayed back.”

Morse sighs, shrugging his rounded shoulders. “It was just the best option. Someone had to unlock the door, and risk being exposed while doing it. Wolves may be faster and stronger than men, but if you surprise them there’s a few seconds of opportunity. And to me, a bite is just a bite.”

“That’s really it? Nothing more? Full moons, foxfire, songbirds at night, they don’t mean anything to you?” he demands incredulously, silver held tight in his grip. Knowing sun-touched can’t be turned is one thing; understanding the idea of not fearing the things that define the nightmares of every human is another entirely. 

But then he’s seen it already; Morse doesn’t track full moons, doesn’t carry silver, and if the tattoos on his arms are kosher Strange will eat his helmet. 

Morse glances over at him without raising his head, eyes half in shadow. “They mean death. More than that, no. Not for a long time, longer than I really remember. I have my own fears, but they aren’t yours.” 

He saw them earlier tonight in Morse’s face on the ride back from the alleyway, saw them when they entered the flat. Strange tastes something bitter in his mouth, and slips the shilling away. 

And anyway,” continues Morse grimly, like a man preparing to walk into a vampire nest, “you shouldn’t have been there in the first place. It wasn’t my intention. And I ignored your warning about the moon – double damned. I don’t – want others to pay for my mistakes.” There’s a tiny catch in his voice, some wound left by the past and not properly healed. 

Strange blinks, momentarily dumbstruck by the absurdity of this. And then, “Well that’s a load of rubbish, isn’t it?” he says, straightforwardly. “It doesn’t matter why I was there, why either of us were there. Coppering, friendship – _life_ – isn’t some… calculation of who owes who what, who deserves more, who should’ve been there and who shouldn’t’ve. If some bugger needs help, you help him.” 

Morse stares back, looking poleaxed. After a moment, though, a weak smile creeps across his face and he drops his head to push a hand through his hair. “As amateur philosophers go, Strange, you have a certain flare.”

“Never understood all that prattle, libraries full of old men arguing every point under the sun. Give me something practical, every time.”

“And so, the uniform,” says Morse, still smiling. 

Strange shrugs. “Well, not all of us have the brains for better things, matey, and I’ve no family connections in trades. You could say options were limited.”

“You have brains enough for anything to which you apply yourself, so long as you remember not to take things at face value – not until you’ve determined them to be what they seem.”

The compliment – and coming from Morse, it certainly is one – is unexpected, and he feels himself growing awkward, like a schoolboy praised in front of the class. In his haste to change the topic, he’s emboldened to ask a question he wouldn’t have otherwise: “And you? Not many geniuses decide to join up as a PC at Carshall.” That, at least, is a matter of common knowledge at the nick, although it most often comes up in conversations between other PCs bemoaning the fact that Morse has been landed on them. 

Somewhat to his surprise, Morse actually answers. “At the time I needed work, and it seemed a job I could do. Now, after – since coming to Oxford I think that in whatever way I can, I want to do some good. There’s so much malice and cruelty out there, Strange, and I can’t just … do nothing.” He drops the last two words into the conversation with a kind of helplessness that’s very unlike him. But it’s the CID men, not the PCs, who have the job of getting inside the minds of murderers and rapists like Gull and Longmore. And Morse, he can only guess, learned exactly how much evil lay in their hearts. He shivers a little at the thought.

“That’s about the last thing anyone would think of you,” says Strange, in a kindly tone. “And if you can keep Bright off your case, you might even make it back to being Thursday’s bagman one of these days,” he adds, more lightly.

Morse snorts. “He’d sooner promote a toady like Armitage than me if it came to it.”

“Maybe, but Thursday’d never wear it. He’ll keep your slot for you until you pass your sergeant’s. Which you will, if we ever get down to revising properly.” 

Morse picks up the scotch and pours himself another glass, makes to do the same for Strange. “Are you suggesting a round now?”

Strange hesitates, torn. Finally he shakes his head with a sigh. “No – I’ve got to be returning the car and signing out. Sergeant Tapping’ll do his nut if he thinks I’ve been claiming undue overtime, after all the extra hours spent going after Gull.” He stands, careful not to knock the flimsy table with the still-full bowl of water. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Morse nods. “We’ll shut down Fairfax. And Strange – mind you don’t say anything about this.” He raises his arm. “I can’t very well explain how it is I came not to turn, and as you said I doubt Fairfax is public-spirited enough to be taking his tablets.”

“But Fairfax –”

“Is hardly likely to risk the hefty prison sentence that comes with intentionally attempting to turn a police officer. He won’t be shooting his mouth off about it.”

“Right…” He makes for the door, and pauses in the entryway. “Morse?”

Morse lowers his drink, looking slightly irritated. He raises his eyebrows inquisitively. 

In the back of Strange’s mind, he can still hear the low rumble of the growl ripping through the darkness, the skittering of claws on the pavement, the merciless thrumming of his own heartbeat in his ears. It doesn’t matter why Morse says he acted as he did, doesn’t matter what he says motivated him – Strange knows he would have done the same no matter who had been with him. Men who chase lunatics alone in the middle of the night, who wait to trip up werewolves, don’t distinguish between who they protect. 

“I never said: thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse quotes John Dryden's "The Secular Masque."


	8. WORKHOUSE RULES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thursday's past comes to Oxford; Morse's calls him home.

One of the awkward joins between the CID and Uniform is sudden deaths – those cases which are almost certainly accidents, but just may turn out not to be. No one wants them: they’re generally uninteresting, families tend to press for suspicious death when accident or natural causes is indicated, and doctors are almost impossible to force commitments from. As such they usually fall to the junior men, and Morse finds himself dropped in at least his fair share of them.

He is called out late to the scene of a road accident – hit and run, apparently, although there are a few niggling doubts. By the next morning his doubts haven’t lessened any; however he does manage to identify the victim by the contents of his briefcase. A Greats don at Bailey, Coke-Norris.

Thursday, not surprisingly, is less than interested in this. He lets Morse have his say, pushing back gently at his suppositions and, finding them sound moves on.

“The results came back from the range,” he says, livening up as he glances at the report from Morse’s recent firearms re-qualification. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” 

“Army, I suppose,” replies Morse, immediately. It’s a practiced excuse.

Thursday gives him a look. “Thought you were in signals.” 

He can’t quite suppress the exasperation; of course Thursday would remember. Only very occasionally, he thinks, it would be helpful to have a slightly duller superior. 

“Mr Bright’s very keen in any event – asked after your sergeant’s exam. I told him you’re on top of your fittings. You are, aren’t you?” Thursday asks, somewhere between inquiring and concerned.

“I think so.”

“Think? You’d better be! Can’t have you treading water on General Duties another twelve months.” 

Morse nods, but is saved replying by Jakes’ appearance. Mrs Coke-Norris has arrived to report her husband missing. 

Morse steels himself to break the news to her. It’s the second-worst part of the job.

\------------------------------------------------

With Jakes at court most of the week, Morse is back as Thursday’s acting bagman. After returning from his own investigations into the dead Bailey don, he drives Thursday into town apparently simply to gather information. The inspector slips a newspaper-man a ten shilling note for some drivel about London men in Oxford; Morse does his best not to stare.

“He’s a good man, Albert. Reliable,” says Thursday, handing Morse the newspaper he purchased at the exorbitant price. He’s got his pipe drawing, smoke very white in the cold December air. 

“Ten bob a time, I expect he is.” 

Thursday glances at him. “Any copper’s only as good as the intelligence he’s got coming in. What’d they teach you at Carshall?”

“I don’t remember anything in _Judge’s Rules_ about paying for information,” replies Morse, acidly, slushing through some partially-melted snow.

“Got something new to think about then, haven’t you?” 

Thursday leads the way as they walk, collars turned up and hands deep in pockets. It’s been a cold few days, snow on roofs and flowerboxes, small icicles hanging from eaves troughs and the pavement icy in patches. 

Morse doesn’t realise they’ve arrived until they actually turn into the doorway – the building Thursday’s brought them to is, judging by the awning studded with lights, some sort of lounge or club. Morse has never been here before, and he sees no name written anywhere apparent; just a crescent moon etched into silver-coloured plaques mounted on the brick walls on either side of the doors. Thursday pushes right in without stopping.

The doors lead into a long hallway lined with booth seating, the floor thickly carpeted. Nestled in the far corner is a compact bar, complete with bartender, currently cleaning glasses. At the far end of the hall with his back to them, busy doing something with his hands, stands middle-aged man in a vest and dark shirt. 

“Morray,” says Thursday, with false geniality. “How’s show business?”

Morse watches as the man turns around with a kind of sick look on his face, plastering on a smile. “There’s no business like it, Mr Thursday.” He’s counting what looks to be about five hundred pounds in cash, peeling the notes apart with sweaty fingers.

He retreats from the hall through a double door, glancing nervously from Thursday to Morse to his route; Morse hangs back as Thursday follows him. The door turns out to lead into a large dance hall, complete with stage decorated with a large hanging crescent moon. The houselights above the stage have been turned on and are pouring a dust-filled light down onto the dirty floor, currently being mopped by an elderly lady. 

Morray takes a seat at a table set up in the middle of the floor and continues trying to count his money; Thursday follows him to press him about a recent major theft of cigarettes, and then rumours about a change in ownership of the club which Morray seems very eager not to discuss. Morse stays in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. 

Behind him the door to the club opens; he glances back to see a blonde woman in a leopard-print coat walk down the plush carpet and stop at the bar. Morse’s eyes skim over her long legs and tight skirt to her delicate hands with their perfectly manicured nails, her full lips, her dark lashes. As she asks the barman for a packet of cigarettes Morse realises he’s staring, but he can’t stop – she’s not just attractive (although she is, extremely), she’s enthralling. His heart is speeding in his chest, skin growing uncomfortably hot under his layers of clothing, when she turns. 

“There something you want?” she asks, looking over at him for the first time with something almost like disdain. Embarrassment stabs through him but he has no answer, just keeps staring – can’t stop. She walks right by him, smelling of Chanel and cigarettes and ignoring him completely. He turns to watch as she cuts straight across the dance floor without giving Thursday or the club man a glance, head held high. 

As she leaves, someone else comes out from the door she disappeared through. An older man, once red-haired but now greying with the pale complexion to match, carrying a few extra pounds and moving with the bumpy gait of a bulldog. Despite his age there’s a lively gregariousness to him, an unspoken but almost electric energy, and Morse drifts in to watch him – is drawn in to watch him. 

“Hullo, Fred,” he says, in the tone of a man greeting an old friend. 

Thursday turns from his interview towards the voice hailing him, and for a moment seems almost to lose himself. He stares almost blankly, as if trying to find his place again, but when he speaks he sounds confused and uncertain. “Vic.”

“Long time,” says Vic, conversationally, not smiling.

“Ain’t it just,” replies Thursday, in the same tone. There’s no warmth to either of them, no gladness in this meeting. Morse has never seen Thursday like this, has no idea what it means. Thursday has never had any trouble putting sleazy operators in their place before, even well-connected ones. And he’s never not known what tack to take, even in the worst gales.

“Keeping well?”

“Must’n’t grumble.”

“Family?”

“What’s this, then?” asks Thursday sharply, finally finding his feet and stepping forward to cut off the bizarre tennis-match of false small-talk. “Things got a bit too lively for you in Mile End?” 

“Nah. Retired, ain’t I? We all got it coming. Even you. This place’ll see me out.” Vic looks around at the dusty room. He speaks with a thick London accent, far stronger than Thursday’s, blunted by years living in Oxford. 

A second figure enters through the door, a younger man in shirtsleeves. He has the same careless gait as Vic, and the same simmering energy. Morse finds it difficult to divide his attention between the two of them, the effort of it almost anxiety-provoking. 

“Well,” drawls the younger man in the same accent. “Look what the dog brought in.”

“You remember my Vince? Fred Thursday, look,” says Vic, as though they were at a family reunion. The pair of them seem, in a way, actually pleased. Thursday looks about to be sick.

“You still at it?” asks Vince, circling around as though to get a better view of them. “I thought they put you out to grass after Carter. That’s the word in town anyway. Fred Thursday, went milky and run off crying to the sticks.”

Morse stares, shocked. He’s not sure which is more unbelievable: that someone could accuse Thursday of cowardice, or that they would do it to his face. 

“Who’s this, then?” the younger Vince continues brightly, indicating Morse with a sweep of his cigarette. 

“Never you mind who it is,” snaps Thursday; Morse is still staring almost helplessly. There’s something about these men – these people – he had taken it for allure in the woman but it must be something else. Charisma, magnetism, some propensity to draw and hold attention without apparent effort. . 

“Vince,” scolds Vic. “Kids, Fred, all piss and vinegar – what can you do? Same ourselves, once.” 

Thursday doesn’t pay him any mind, continues right on in a low, flat tone. Morse hasn’t heard this one before, not even at Thursday’s most furious. It’s simply a statement of terms: how the future will be. “Here’s how it is. You round up your boys and get off my patch, and we’ll leave it at that.”

Vic shakes his head lightly, unbothered. “Might put the fear of God into the locals, but this is me.” 

“First and final,” declares Thursday ominously, like a second dictating the terms of a duel. 

“Workhouse rules, Fred. Last man standing.”

“So be it,” snarls Thursday. He turns and walks out without another word. Morse, pulled into the wake of his presence, breaks away from the two London men and follows his boss out of the club. 

“You think you’ve found somewhere decent,” pours Thursday, in a stream of simmering rage as they stride down the pavement. “Somewhere the rot hasn’t got to yet, but it creeps in. They want to come that game here: over my dead body.”

“Who’s Carter?” asks Morse, curiously. 

Thursday turns very sharply in the middle of the street; Morse nearly runs into him. “You stay away from this place,” orders Thursday, voice harsh, eyes very dark in the pale winter day. “And Vic Kasper. Alright? Just stick to that hit and run and boning up for your sergeant’s, understood?”

There’s no room in his tone for questioning; Morse doesn’t. 

Not aloud.

\---------------------------------------------

He’s still thinking about the encounter when they get back to the nick. Thursday has never been particularly tight-lipped about his past, but Morse’s reliance on silence for his own safety has drawn him into the habit of leaving personal histories alone. He’s never asked for details, and the information Thursday has volunteered has been sparse when it comes to London – mostly concerned with his work involving the consultant Mann, in a small way Morse’s predecessor. 

Bright is waiting in the threshold to Thursday’s office as they come into the CID; Morse makes to peel off, but it’s him the DCS’s eyes fall on. “Ah, Morse. Your sister – Joyce, is it? – called while you were out. It’s your father,” he says. Morse feels a shock of iciness shatter through his heart, stunning, painful. All the sound seems to fade out of the room, the clatter of typewriters, footsteps on linoleum, shuffling of papers all disappear, leaving only Bright’s voice in the sudden silence. “He’s alright, just taken poorly. His heart, she said. You’re to telephone now.”

Morse nods, pulling himself together. “Thank you, sir,” he manages. 

“And of course, if you need a few days compassionate leave…”

“I’m, I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Morse stutters, in the face of this shocking suggestion. 

Bright gives an anemic smile. “Hope for the best, that’s the ticket.”

Head whirring with Joycie’s worried recounting of the doctor’s visit, the morning’s trip to the club, and the image of the dead don stretched out on DeBryn’s autopsy table, he only has time to pass Strange’s name on to Thursday before hurrying to his flat to pack a bag.

\------------------------------------------------------------

The house looks just as he remembers it: low iron fence running around the perimeter, grass and hedges dusted in frost, the sloped roof and bricks showing wear but still standing strong. It was never a warm house, even when he was young and they were a family, but it’s always been a safe one. 

The porch mirrors have been kept impeccably clean, warmed every morning to remove the nightly frost, and the carved iron bells overhead have had new ribbon. Small, rural towns take much more care with their seals than places like Oxford, and Gwen never allowed any slackness. The sigils he carved into the wood pillars while he was up have somehow remained despite her horror, although they’ve been painted over in the intervening years. He runs a hand over the grain, feeling the uneven indentations, the security he had hoped at the time they might offer Joycie, still young and without him.

He sighs and knocks. 

The family, like the house, haven’t changed. Gwen, tough as nails, putting up with his presence only on sufferance and making no bones about it. Joycie, just as stubborn as her parents but far sweeter, heart-warmingly pleased to see him but quiet; watchful. 

Dad, head-strong as a mule despite his illness – or maybe because of it – curmudgeonly, bitter, disappointed. In his life, his capabilities, his son. 

“Still the police?” he asks from his bed after a visit of awkward silences, as Morse is taking his leave. Morse pauses at the door, nods. “Never liked the police.”

It is, if anything, a microcosm of their relationship of latter years. Empty silences interspaced with barbed words, and always a distance between them. 

Morse leaves.

\--------------------------------------------------

Back in Oxford, Morse picks up on the case of Professor Coke-Norris. However, oddly, he unearths a tie to Thursday’s club – the Moonlight Rooms, he learns from a matchbook. A cigarette girl from the club, Georgina Bannard, who had been in contact with the professor before his death is now missing. The second oddity is a link to a new housing development scheme planned by the city council – Booth Hill. 

He mentions it to Thursday at lunch in the pub, providing the matchbook as evidence. Thursday has eyes only for it, scarcely listening to his summary of the Booth Hill element. 

“It’s the Moonlight Rooms motif, isn’t it?” he asks, as soon as Morse is finished. 

“I’m hoping it might shed some light on the Georgina Bannard girl,” nods Morse.

“I told you, I don’t want you getting involved with that lot,” says Thursday flatly, flipping the book back onto the table as though it were painted in acid. 

“Why?”

“Because y’s not a z.” Thursday stares at the far wall stiffly, jaw set.

“D’you mean because of Carter?” prods Morse, irritated.

Thursday’s eyes flash to him in silent warning. “Well, do you have any objection to me going to the town hall? I have a meeting booked with the senior planning officer,” he shoots back, voice laced with sarcasm. This lead Thursday’s suddenly put him on smarts, and it’s none of his doing.

“Talk to who you want, just keep away from Vic Kasper.”

Morse turns away, snorting. He picks up the paper, already folded open to the crossword, although he can’t imagine finding the concentration necessary for it. 

“Anyway, how’s your father? On the mend?” inquires Thursday after a moment in a strained tone. 

Morse forces himself to take a breath, tension easing. “Yeah. Seems to be.”

He reaches out and sweeps up the matchbook from the table, and has to work to hide his surprise. Where before there was nothing, now there’s traces of anger and fear. 

He shouldn’t be able to read that – Thursday, even aggravated as he is, shouldn’t be leaving traces on something so inconsequential. 

He drops the matchbook back in his pocket and picks up his pencil. It was a fluke, surely – just Thursday displaying even stronger feelings than he had realised. 

That, certainly, is all.

\-------------------------------------------------

Morse learns nothing of particular import from the city planner. Back at the nick, he finds Strange at the spare desk, wrapping up his work for the day; both Thursday and Jakes are out. On a whim he pulls out the matchbook and puts it down on the desk in front of the acting DC. Strange glances up. “What is this place, the Moonlight Rooms? Do you know anything about it?”

Strange stares at him in amazement. “You don’t know it?”

“Pop-dancing clubs aren’t my specialty.”

Strange leans back, half-incredulous, half-amused. “It’s not – it may be a night club on the surface, but beneath… Vice have their eye on them, only somehow they’ve never been raided. Friends in high places, I suppose.”

“London connections,” says Morse, thoughtfully.

“That how it is? Well, any rate, they offer more than they advertise – gambling, narcotics, if the rumours are true. And let’s say the name’s not very clever, shall we?” he glances significantly at Morse, who raises his eyebrows. 

“Drinks for two?” 

“Probably the least of it, from what I hear. Might just be rumours, but I’ve a mate in Vice who claims they set blokes up with birds who’re a bit… exotic.”

Morse raises his eyebrows. “Exotic?” 

Strange colours, stiffening as he remembers who he’s talking to. “That’s – I mean –”

“Yes, alright. I get the picture.” There’s always been a corner of the oldest profession set aside for those whose interests are …specialised: nymphs, sirens, laumės, empaths. Anyone who can cater to such tastes can set their prices with a free hand; competition is scarce. 

Morse picks up the matchbook again. “Thanks.”

Strange nods, settling back down again. “You want to watch your back with them; if they’ve been left alone ‘til now, there’s got to be a reason behind it.”

“Don’t _you_ start,” he says, and marches back to his desk.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Morse waits for true night – not just nightfall, which starts in the late afternoon now that the year is nearly out – before catching the bus from his flat to the Moonlight Rooms. 

Morray is there in the front corridor as before, once again in a dark shirt and vest, but with the addition of an incredibly loud yellow tie. He spots Morse immediately, but denies any knowledge of Georgina Bannard. He literally runs into the dance hall before Morse can pry anything else out of him, scrambling up onto the stage to introduce the night’s entertainment, and then oiling away in the direction of Vic Kasper’s table. 

The music is loud and fast-paced, the style somewhere between rock and jazz, the lyrics unsophisticated. Morse watches the dancing begin – eclectic, disorganized, inelegant. He’s about to turn away when he spots a familiar face – _two_ familiar faces. Joan Thursday, and Jakes. Or, more accurately, Joan Thursday _with_ Jakes. He watches, shocked, as they pick a spot on the dance floor and begin what could loosely be termed dancing, until the combination of the music and the bizarre spectacle becomes too much. Morse turns away, slipping further down the corridor past the bar and through a back door in search of answers to his questions. 

He finds himself underneath the dance hall, music still unfortunately audible, facing a door reading Artistes Only. He pushes it open and finds himself facing a room of half-naked women in glittering stage costumes, the nearest of whom gives him an ear-full. He turns away sharply, reddening. 

“Lost something?” comes a snide voice from behind him. He glances up and feels his throat constrict, breath shortening. Vince Kasper is descending the stairs behind him, loping down in long, predatory strides. “Can’t you read: Artistes only. No customers back here.”

Vince has a smile on his face, but it’s not one of amusement. It’s anticipatory, threatening, full of the promise of pain – which Morse has the sense Vince will surely enjoy. He comes to stop right beside Morse, too close, so close Morse can smell the cigarette smoke and whiskey. His eyes are still on Morse, and Morse can’t find the strength to look away, not even when Vince drops his gaze to run down the length of Morse’s body and back up – slowly, appraisingly. Morse is starting to sweat, heart thrumming in his chest, and still he can’t look away, can’t move, can hardly breathe –

“It’s alright, Vince,” interrupts a voice from behind. 

Vince shifts to look, and Morse finds himself suddenly able to move, spell broken. He turns to see the blonde woman – no longer in her leopard print coat – standing in among the show girls. “Do you want to come through?” she asks, pleasantly. Now that he hears her speak he finds she has the same London accent as the two Kaspers. 

He glances back in Vince’s direction; Vince is scowling. Ignoring him, Morse follows the blonde woman through the tight changing room, eyes on the floor, apologizing as he goes. 

He’s beginning to realise that the club is a rabbit warren; on the other side of the changing room is another set of booths with a bar, this one completely empty. 

“Drink?” enquires his escort, over her shoulder.

“No thank you, Miss…?”

“Riley. Cynthia. Call me Sin.” She reaches behind the bar and pours herself a glass of scotch, neat. 

“Where do you fit into this set up, Miss Riley?” he asks, coming to stand beside her. 

“Hostess,” she smiles secretively; he can feel himself gawking, tries to snap out of it. Where Vince’s presence is crushing, hers is captivating, but no less easily escaped. 

“I see,” he manages.

She gives a little laugh. “I doubt it,” she says, taking a sip of her drink. “Morray said you were looking for someone.”

“That’s right. Georgina Bannard. She works here as a cigarette girl.”

“Not here, duckie.” She sighs. “Look, you seem like a nice bloke, but having coppers about makes the clientele jumpy. Whatever you’re about, please, just drop it. Walk away.” 

Morse raises his eyebrows. “Or what?” He takes a step forward, and catches sight of something moving out of the corner of his eye; he glances over and sees his reflection coming into view in the mirror behind the bar. 

Only his reflection, alone in the corridor.

Miss Riley cants her head to the side, gives a little half-shrug, and takes another drink. 

Morse stumbles past her, through a long narrow hallway, and up another flight of stairs. He finds himself in a back alleyway, and has to circle around to get back into the club through the front doors. 

All he can think of is Jakes and Joan Thursday, blithely enjoying themselves on the dancefloor. They’re utterly unaware of the darker link between the three heads of the Moonlight Rooms, at least two of whom seem to have it in for anyone connected to Fred Thursday. Of the reason behind their strange magnetism, their vibrancy – like an electric current, and just as deadly. 

There’s only one manner of touched that casts no reflection. No wonder Thursday has been walking on eggshells. 

Morse arrives back at the dance hall doorway to find a slow song in progress, couples swaying together across the floor. He watches Joan fend off a couple overly-familiar grabs by Jakes before sending him packing, his hands raised in apologetic protest.

Morse is just considering how best to inform the two of them and make sure they get out when the door on the opposite side of the hall opens and Thursday comes striding in carrying something hefty in one hand. Jakes peels off abruptly, blending into the crowd and disappearing.

Thursday cuts straight through the dancers to the front of the room by the stage where the Kaspers and some other patrons are sitting drinking. He marches straight up to Vic Kasper’s table and throws his burden on the table; the weight of it carries it through the assembled glasses, smashing them to pieces. 

It is, Morse sees as he pushes his way through the suddenly-frozen dance hall, a funeral wreath. 

“You send this to my home? My _home_?” demands Thursday, low and absolutely furious. 

Vic remains seated, face a model of surprise. “Wasn’t me, Fred.”

Vince appears from somewhere at the head of a group of other young men all in suits, bearing down on Thursday. Morse’s attention swings around like a weathercock, teeth setting as the younger Kasper strides straight up to the inspector. “You want to watch it, coming in here and throwing your weight around; you’ll go the same way as your boy Carter.” 

Thursday turns, slowly, and Morse thinks he can very nearly feel the hatred rolling off him. 

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t think I did – why don’t you come out from behind your mates and say it again?” He pushes towards Vince, fists coming up – as though they would be any kind of use at all. 

Morse steps forward urgently, fighting to make his feet move – “Sir –”

Just as reckless as her father, Joan appears out of nowhere and darts into the fray, stepping between Thursday and Vince to hold Thursday back. Morse thinks that, even so, Thursday might not have noticed her if she hadn’t called to him. “Dad!”

At the sound of her voice he tears his eyes away from Vince to stare at her like a man who’s been shot, face grey and appalled. “Get out, now,” he says, hoarsely. And then, catching hold of Morse, “See her home.”

Morse can only do as Thursday says, the desperation in Thursday’s voice enough to tear him away from the Kaspers. He turns Joan around and escorts her out through the crowd as she protests. Behind him he hears Vic Kasper ordering Vince to sit down; his own knees twinge with the strength of the command. 

“Silver,” he says, as soon as they get out into the cold night air, “d’you carry it?” He hurries her across the street, glancing back over his shoulder every few feet. 

“What? No – it’s a new moon. You’re a copper, don’t you?”

“Forgot it,” he lies, vaguely. He would have brought it, had Thursday warned him. But a blanket no-go zone doesn’t lend itself to adequate communication. 

“What on earth was that about? Morse?” She’s almost having to run to keep up with the pace he’s setting, arms wrapped tightly over her stomach, hands chafing at her bare elbows. She’s wearing a flimsy sleeveless dress, certainly insufficient protection against the nearly freezing weather, but there was no question of retrieving anything from the cloakroom. He slips out of his coat and offers it to her. 

“Work,” he says. 

“Well yes, I did manage to put that together.” She pulls on his coat; the cuffs fall down to the tips of her fingers. “Who are they – and why are they threatening Dad?” she asks, flippancy replaced by a much harder edge. 

“I don’t know, although I’m doing my best to find out,” he says, honestly. “But they’re vampires, the lot of them, and they bear old grudges.”

Joan stops dead in the middle of the pavement, forcing Morse to do the same. “And you left him in there with them?” she’s staring at him, aghast, under the street lamp. And then, setting her chin, she makes to turn. He catches her arm below the sleeve and is nearly floored by the bitter battle of fear and determination she’s fighting. 

“He’s safe – there are dozens of witnesses there,” says Morse, in what he hopes isn’t too breathless a voice. “And Jakes, somewhere,” he adds as an afterthought, although that’s assuming the sergeant hasn’t already slipped out. “They won’t touch him now, not after that scene.”

Joan shakes her head worriedly, but eventually lets him chivvy her on again, and they continue the frigid walk back to her home. 

Later that night when he gets back to his apartment, he roots around in his sock drawer until he finds the old leather sachet stored at the bottom. He slips the drawstrings open and pours the silver necklace out into his palm. He rubs his thumb over the flat pendant, and finds for the first time a touch of fear there where before there was nothing. Unsettled, he tucks the necklace back into its pouch, and returns it to the bottom of the drawer. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

Georgina Bannard is found the next day, lying in a frozen field with a bullet in her brain. Another round of interviews with her roommate produces an almost unbelievable story of bribery and prostitution involving the city planner, carried out at (of all places) Professor Coke-Norris’ London flat. Or at least, it might have been unbelievable without the rumours provided by Strange, and the fact that Georgina Bannard’s corpse is surrounded by a perfect circle of ice – a naiad. 

Morse takes the train up to London to look through the flat. While he’s there, he makes a few telephone calls. And manages to arrange a drink with Prue Wilkens, formerly Carter.

\----------------------------------------------------------

“He looked out for us, after Mickey…” Mrs Wilkens pinches her lips together, tracing the edge of the table with her thumb. 

“Inspector Thursday did,” says Morse, surprised.

She nods. “He sent me money, the end of each month. Right up to when I got married again. Taken Mickey under his wing, see, from a young constable.” She slows, gaze dropping to the table as she struggles to pick out blunt, safe words. It’s a caution the job accustomed Morse to very early on. “Only that night, Mickey went to see this informant by himself. Turned out he’d been set up by the Kaspers. Meant to only have been drained enough to frighten him, everyone said.” She bites her lip hard, and the words stop.

“But he died,” finishes Morse, quietly.

She looks up, eyes steely. “No. They turned him. It was some young fledge with no knowledge or sense; he turned Mickey and left him. Fledges need their sire to teach them how to overcome the hunger that drives them, bring back the memories they hold – without that, they’re just… mindless killers. That’s how they left Mickey. He killed two people before the police found him and – stopped. him.” She lets the two words fall, smooth and slick as ice cubes, to shatter the conversation. 

Morse has nothing to say, can only sit, watching her. She gives a sad half-smile. “Mr. Thursday blamed himself. Told him there was no need, but he wouldn’t have it. Then when no one got charged and people started saying what they did… things got bad. Fred had a young family himself, had to look out for them.”

Morse frowns, dissatisfied. Thursday’s bagman as good as murdered, and no charges laid? The story still doesn’t piece together. 

\------------------------------------------------------

That night when he gets home from London, he puts on the necklace. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Morse realises that he’s missed something while in London when Bright goes up like Guy Fawkes at the suggestion of more questions for the Master of Bailey regarding the sale of Booth Hill. He and Thursday are forbidden from darkening the great man’s door in no uncertain terms, forcing them to take their work beyond the station walls.

They go to Thursday’s favourite pub, The Lady of the Isis, a cozy little stone building close enough to the nick to be convenient but not so close that it’s flooded with coppers, full of nooks and corners for quiet conversation. Usually they sit in the picture window at the back of the building overlooking the river, light and airy. Today, though, they need privacy. Thursday chooses the small stone room the back of the pub holding only two tables, and promptly spreads his coat on a chair at the second to ward off unwanted neighbours. There’s already a fire burning in the fireplace even though it’s only three, logs crackling eagerly. 

They go through the papers Morse retrieved following his visit to Coke-Norris’ flat while working their way through a bottle of scotch, Thursday doing most of the drinking. The room grows steadily hotter, Morse sweating under his jacket; Thursday seems not to notice it. 

Morse has never seen him like this. There’s a tiredness, a sense of defeat that is utterly unlike the inspector; it’s there in the hunch of his back and the low rasp of his voice. He pays only marginal attention to Morse’s careful examination and theorizing about the papers, before finally seeming to grow bored with it all together before they reach any meaningful conclusion.

“My Joan say what she was doing down at the Moonlight?” he asks, setting down his once-again empty glass. Morse has also never seen him put away this much, his movements grown heavy and languid with the alcohol. 

Morse glances up. “Works night out – girls from the bank,” he fibs, pouring Thursday out another few fingers of scotch.

“How come you were there?”

“I was working on the case. Looking for Georgina Bannard.”

“After I told you to steer clear.”

Morse rubs at his ear. “I don’t need protecting, sir.”

Thursday gives him an old look. “Don’t you?”

“No. I won’t end up like Mickey Carter.” That, at least, is unassailably true. 

“What would you know about it?” growls Thursday.

Morse pauses, then takes the plunge. He’s tired of being given the run-around; tired of being sheltered from his job. “I saw his widow.”

Thursday goes very still, expression growing icy. “You did what?”

“Yeah, when I was in London.”

“Going behind my back. You’d no business –”

“If it has a bearing on the case then it is my business. And you weren’t going to tell me.” He waits for an explosion and, meeting none, continues in a gentler tone. “Was it Vic Kasper?”

Thursday gives a slow, certain nod. “Couldn’t prove it. Investigation started turning up Mickey’d been the take – had… illicit interests. He hadn’t of course, but the brass didn’t want to know. Vampires are buried in the heart of half the serious rackets in the East End; their pockets are deep, and their reach is long.”

“His colleagues – they really killed him?” asks Morse. It’s not that he doesn’t believe it; he certainly can. But that a division would be given the job of putting down one of their own… as a copper, even a green one, that rankles. 

Thursday is silent for what seems like a long time before answering. “There was no ‘they,’” he says, hands resting on his knees forming fists so tight the knuckles turn blotchily white. “There was just –”

He turns to stare into the fire, flames flickering in his eyes, while Morse feels the horror coalesce like tar in his stomach: thick, heavy, acrid. He can’t seem to turn his mind from the picture it’s painted for itself – Fred Thursday standing over the corpse of his bagman, gun in hand, staring down as it turns to dust. 

Thursday, who last month he asked to put him down like a dog if he ever threatened a life. Morse clenches his jaw against a sudden rise of bile, forces himself to swallow. 

“I never told Prue – thought she wouldn’t take the money. No pension for widows of murderers, regardless of the circumstances,” Thursday goes on, after a while. “They buried Mickey Carter’s good name along with his empty casket.”

Morse looks up, shocked. “You wouldn’t let that go.”

Thursday turns back, raising his eyebrows, face a study in self-recrimination. “Oh, I let it go alright. To my shame.” He takes a drink. “They come at you through what you care about.” 

“That’s… why you moved to Oxford,” surmises Morse. “To protect your family.” 

“More or less.”

The whole terrible history lies between them on the table, painful, awkward, shared out of requirement rather than willingness. That alone feels almost like a betrayal, now that he knows the reasons for Thursday’s silence. But there’s no taking back the past and even if he could Morse wouldn’t – horrible as it is, it’s still part of the tangled knot of the case, and he needs to know. That doesn’t mean the knowledge comes without a price. 

“You were right,” says Morse, tasting the sourness of his reluctance on the words, but continuing all the same. “It wasn’t the army, where I learned to shoot. The first Christmas after my mother, my father bought me a pistol and took me out after rabbits on the common. Make a man.” He gives a quick, humourless smile. “At the time, it seemed… like giving a fish a corkscrew: unfathomable, irrelevant.” He only remembers tiny snatches of the boy he had been, but he knows he had had only one single longing: comfort. 

“Later, though, once I’d grown into myself, I tried to convince myself that maybe it was just the only way he could think of to protect me without her.” He wonders now whether he ever believed it. But even then, he had had only the same one need. And it had been even less forthcoming, and the lack of it had nearly sent him into his mother’s shadow. 

“And now?” asks Thursday.

Morse shrugs. “I think he wanted a son he could be proud of. I wanted a father who understood me. Families aren’t something you choose.” 

“He _has_ a son to be proud of, Morse,” says Thursday evenly. 

Morse smothers his smile under the rim of his glass. “Yes, well. I’ll probably never know.” Thursday gives him a sharp look, and he expands. “No – he’s alright. But we – I don’t read him.” 

Sometime in the last seven years Morse decided that believing himself to be a disappointment was still better than knowing himself to be. And the further he’s drifted from Lonsdale – the army, Carshall, sacrificed in a blood rite, and now back to Oxford with the CID – the more sure of his decision he’s become. 

He starts tidying up the papers, hoping for an end to this conversation and beginning to get a headache from the relentless heat; beside him, Thursday finishes his glass. 

Win Thursday won’t be best pleased with the pair of them, he thinks. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

Morse is just waiting on the incorporation information from Companies House to put together the final pieces around Booth Hill when a second, frantic call comes through from Joycie. Dad’s had another attack – serious. 

Thursday sees him to the station, putting him on the train with some misapprehension about his having been at the Moonlight Rooms with Joan; he doesn’t have time to correct it before the train pulls away. And then it’s gone from his mind, only restless worry left. 

The train gets held up just outside of Bletchley. Morse sighs and opens his bag to look for his book. What he finds instead, oddly, is the entirety of Coke-Norris’ file on Booth Hill. He picks it up, and nearly drops it. It’s searing with desperation and a gut-wrenching, bone-cracking determination. It’s the stuff of last stands, choices made while staring down the barrel of a gun.

Only Thursday could have put it there, and there’s only one thing that would cause him to take such a stand. 

Morse gets up, and makes for the exit.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

The entrance corridor to the Moonlight Rooms is empty, even the bar unoccupied. Morse creeps down the thick carpet, only a folder in his hands. Back-up wants time to get kitted up, but that’s a luxury Thursday may not have. 

“How about the young girl we found with a bullet in her skull,” Thursday is saying, as Morse rounds the door into the dance hall.

The inspector is standing on the nearer side of the room, revolver in hand. On the other side are Vic, Vince and Cynthia Riley, as well as a few of nameless thugs. They’re all standing still, watching – for now. A vampire can’t outrun a bullet. But at this distance, Thursday’ll never get off a second shot. 

“That’s none of mine,” replies Vic. His hands are spread in a placating gesture, although is tone is firm. Beside him, Miss Riley is tense but still just waiting. Vic and his men, on the other hand, are almost hunched with the strain of their taut muscles, ready to leap.

“Carter, then. We can agree on Carter.” 

“All’s fair, Fred. Water under.”

“Threatening my Joan,” snarls Thursday. “Water under?”

Vic stiffens. “That’s none of mine.”

“Bad luck for you, then.” Thursday’s voice is like a whip, and Morse can feel the entire room waiting to spring.

“Sir – don’t – he’s telling the truth.” Morse hurries over towards Thursday, heart hammering.

“Thank God, someone with some sense.” Vince turns to look at him, and Morse slows as he feels himself caught like a fly in the vampire’s gaze. “What are those? Papers?”

“After a fashion. These are the articles of association for Landesman Construction.” 

Morse doesn’t see Vince move; there’s just a flicker of shadow, and the flash of Thursday swivelling to track it. He stands, paralyzed, as the gun stops pointing almost directly at him. 

From behind him, he feels a soft gust of cold air as Vince exhales over the back of his neck. Adrenaline burns through Morse, his heart running like a river, beats too fast to count. The silver necklace seems to be strangling him under his collar but he can’t move to grab it, can’t fight, can hardly breathe. 

“Could use a toy,” says Vince, putting a hand on his arm and pulling him closer.

The touch of the fangs against his neck, just under the back of his jaw, is incredibly light. They graze over his skin in the faintest of pinpricks, making his flesh creep. Vince’s lip and chin press against his neck, cold and dry; he’s full of amusement and contempt, a cat batting at its prey in the moments before the claws slip out. For a moment, Morse’s thoughts all drain away and leave only terror to race in circles in his empty mind. Then: 

“Not this time,” breathes Thursday, pulling back the hammer. 

Morse makes himself takes a breath; he doesn’t dare swallow. 

“Sir – please – he can only endeavour to,” he manages, staring Thursday straight in the eye and stressing his name very slightly. Thursday pauses, thumb still on the hammer. 

The moment Thursday pulls the trigger, he’s dead. This is not something to die for. And it doesn’t have to be.

Morse sighs, voice catching in a pathetic-sounding groan, but turns his eyes on Vic. “Four shareholders, equal partners: Cid and Gerald Fletcher, your son Vince, and Cynthia Riley.”

He closes his eyes, waiting for the fangs to sink into his aorta. But Miss Riley cracks immediately, denying any knowledge of the plan. And Vince, sounding for the first time less than confident, straightens from behind Morse to defend himself. Morse forces himself not to fold, not to move into Thursday’s lee, not to move at all. In fact, to do the one thing he does best: bring the bastard down with words. 

The whole story comes out – Vince’s scheme to bribe the city planner into pushing through the development and share the profits eventually with Miss Riley, all done behind his sire’s back. 

Vic listens to it with the expression of a man who’s just gambled away everything, and sees no prospect of winning it back again. “It’s between me and the boy, Fred. You let me straighten him out,” he pleads. 

Thursday’s lip curls. “Can’t do it, Vic.”

From behind them there’s a banging, and then a squad of police officers bursts into the room, most carrying rifles, all wearing silver at their throats and wrists. “Police, back away,” someone shouts. 

This time, he hears the footsteps as Vince moves away; a moment later, Thursday lowers his gun.

“All in order, Thursday?” asks Bright, appearing behind the wall of coppers.

“Yes, sir. All in order.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

They leave the Moonlight Rooms busy with coppers searching for evidence, Vince being taken away from the shaded back-alley entrance in reinforced cuffs and a face mask. 

“But if it wasn’t Vic or Vince who did for Coke-Norris, then we’re back where we started,” says Thursday, puzzled. But then, he hasn’t had much thought to spare for the supposed hit-and-run. 

Morse nods. “Yes, sir. Right where we started.”

They find Mrs Coke-Norris at home with the door open, oddly agitated but trying to hide it. They then find Coke-Norris’ junior professor’s coat, and her blood-stained blouse. And then, lying in the study, the junior’s body. Morse stays in the sitting room with the woman to call an ambulance while Thursday tries to find a pulse.

Morse is telephoning when a movement in the corner of his eye causes him to turn. Mrs Coke-Norris has risen from her chair; there is a revolver in her hand. 

Time seems to slow. He very distinctly feels the telephone handset fall from his fingers at almost the same instant that he hears two shots, so close they nearly run together. He sees Mrs Coke-Norris take a bullet to the chest, collapsing instantly as the blood splutters. And he feels an impact like the strike of a mallet against his hip knock his leg out from under him.

Morse crumples to the ground, staring down at himself in shock. Then he sees the blood. And then, like a door being opened, the pain floods in. 

“Morse?”

Morse rolls his head back to see Thursday standing over him, gun in hand, staring down in horror. For some reason the irony strikes him as funny, but his smile comes off as a grimace, and Thursday snatches up the phone as he drops to Morse’s side. He rattles off a series of sharp orders – an ambulance, the crime scene investigation squad, DeBryn and the coroner’s service, some Uniforms, then hangs up. 

Thursday wraps him up in a knitted blanket from the sofa and elevates his feet on some cushions, applying a firm pressure against the wound that floods much of Morse’s consciousness with agony. The wound is near his hip, but he doesn’t think his leg is broken; he can still move it without debilitating anguish.

He’s quite sure Thursday’s hand must be pressed against his bare skin but his pain is overwhelming his ability to read anything from it. He can, however, see Thursday’s face, lined with worry and regret. He licks his lips, willing his teeth to unlock. 

“You don’t have to worry about me, sir. I’ll be fine.”

“Morse –” Thursday shakes his head. “It’s my job to worry. Someday when you’re guv’nor to a bagman with the self-preservation instincts of an iron dinghy, you’ll know how I feel.”

“Wasn’t my fault,” protests Morse, unable to put the indignance he feels into his voice. Thursday sighs and presses his shoulder.

“No, it wasn’t,” he agrees.

Morse closes his eyes. “I need to go home,” he says, quietly. 

Thursday sighs again, deeper. “I know, lad.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

It’s dark when Thursday drops him off outside the old brick house, his hip aching despite the best DeBryn could do for him. He hurries through the iron gate and up the stairs to the porch; the bells have been muffled in black cloth. 

He doesn’t have to knock; Joycie opens the door before he has the chance. He can read the whole story in her eyes. 

Dad is sleeping when Morse limps upstairs, if indeed it is sleep – his breathing is weak and slow, barely audible, and Joycie says he hasn’t woken for hours. Coma, Morse thinks, standing stiffly by the bedside, the weakened heart giving out. Morse’s own heart is twisting sickly in his chest, awash turmoil. He can’t seem to find any sense of certainty, any anchor to latch onto in this rough sea of pain and confusion. 

His father is dying, and he doesn’t know what it means to him. 

“The doctor said we should talk to you,” he says, lost. He tries to think of something, anything, to say. But how can there be words now, when there haven’t been any for the past 28 years? When there were none after Mum died, or when his empathy woke, or when his degree and his engagement to Susan crumbled hand in hand, or when he returned from Oxford last January having lost nearly everything he owned and much of his dignity and reputation on top of that. 

They’ve never learned how to talk to one another, just as they’ve never learned to understand one another. And never will. 

Morse sits in silent, pained vigil, utterly unable to reconcile any of the wounds in his heart, and all the more angry with himself for it. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

The early morning light on his face wakes him, or perhaps the ache in his hip. Morse gives a little roll of his shoulders and stands, wincing. Joycie has fallen asleep in the chair on the other side of the bed, frowning in her sleep. He smiles gently and shrugs out of his jacket, crosses to drape it over her shoulders. His fingers brush over the back of her chair and he winces – _fear / grief / sorrow_ lie there, unseen and unexpected but in shockingly clear relief. 

He returns to his seat and glances at Dad, still asleep, unmoving – Morse pauses. There’s a stillness to him, a greyness in his face that wasn’t there before. Heart suddenly racing, Morse reaches under his collar and unfastens the clip of the necklace there. Holds the bright, polished surface of the pendant beneath his father’s nose and waits. No moisture, not the tiniest trace of condensation falls on its surface. 

Morse steps back, necklace slipping from his fingers to drop almost silently to the carpeted floor. 

Slowly, hesitantly, he reaches out towards his father’s hand. This will be Morse’s last chance to know him, to know how he felt at the end, perhaps even to know his feelings for him. 

Morse’s hand falls on the blanket, and then draws away. He drops back into his chair and wipes his hand across his mouth. 

Eventually, when he’s sure of his voice, he gets up to wake Joycie.


	9. winter solstice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some nightmares you never really wake up from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed last chapter (although probably not, references were vague) I have tweaked the timing of WORKHOUSE RULES to take place in December rather than January for my own purposes. 
> 
> In other news, RL has been very busy this month (thus the month long break), and will be next month as well, so probably a while before chapter 10. But I can finally say with absolute confidence that we are more than halfway there. Thanks for sticking around!

DCS Bright strides into the CID at 8:45 on the dot as every morning, nodding to his officers as he walks down the central thoroughfare to his office. He ignores the proliferation of burnt-out candles, small lanterns and lamps that has occurred almost overnight in every window, cluttering the sills. Morse’s desk is still empty; he says nothing about that either, merely nods to Jakes and continues on.

They’ll be burying the father today, surely. There are no burials on the solstice, no celebrations of death. Not when it looms so near.

Bright shivers – damn office draughts – and turns down the narrow corridor into the small administrative wing of the CID. 

When the building that became Cowley Station was converted into a police headquarters, most of the walls on the second floor were knocked in and rebuilt to better meet needs – sectional offices for major crimes, vice, and fraud within the CID office, as well as a small evidence room, a meeting room, the lavatories and locker room, and the offices for the Chief Superintendent and necessary secretarial staff. As with most renovations done out of the taxpayer’s pocket, the motto was “cheap and cheerful.” They have served the station adequately, but Bright has discovered that even in his corner office it is impossible to have a conversation uninterrupted by the noise of the main room, it is always too hot or too cold, and there is always a draught. 

He has barely had the chance to sit down and look through the diary for today when the department secretary hurries in, looking harried. “The Assistant Chief Constable just rang round, sir. He would like to stop by this afternoon, if you’ll be in.”

Bright straightens. “Yes. Yes, of course. When?”

“Two, sir.”

He nods without looking at the page in front of him. “Fine. Did he say why?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well.”

She hurries out and he glances down, pencilling out the internal meeting he had scheduled for that time. 

Deare. Well, he can only be here for one of two reasons, and they’re both tied up with each other. Bright stands and makes his way out through the office again, past Jakes and the empty desk, and knocks on Thursday’s door. 

The inspector is sitting at his desk filling out paperwork, pipe in his mouth. He looks up at the knock and then straightens, putting down his pen. Bright steps in, closing the door behind him. 

Thursday’s office isn’t the style he cares for himself – over-cluttered with mismatched furniture, fireplace mantelpiece taken up with a tight row of photographs, walls holding scenic pictures and maps of Oxford, as well as the usual seals. It feels very much like Thursday’s territory, a space ruled solely by the inspector. But this is Oxford CID, and it is _his._

“The Assistant Chief Constable will be paying me a visit this afternoon, Thursday. I just wondered where you were with the review process. Getting on all right, and all that?” He glances at the forms Thursday’s filling out, but they look like something to do with leave, nothing for the Coke-Norris review.

“Fine, sir. They have my interview and formal statement, and Dr DeBryn’s as well – he was the first medical man on the scene, sir, saw to Morse, in addition to performing the autopsy,” Thursday explains. “They’ve spoken with Morse on the phone, although they’ll need to wait until he gets back before they can get a formal statement signed. After that, there’s just the usual forms to fill out; should be done by today.” 

Bright nods. “Good. Yes – when are you expecting Morse back?”

“The funeral is today; he thinks tomorrow, sir. I’m just putting in his leave request now,” Thursday adds. 

Bright waves away Thursday’s concern. “Of course – there’s no problem about that. It’s simply… not a wise day for travel, perhaps. Evil is often drawn to grief.” The last thing they need is to lose an officer on the dark streets of Oxford, especially one just involved in a fatal shooting. The scandal would be unimaginable. 

“He can catch a morning train and be back in the afternoon. No danger.” 

“Very well. Oh, one more thing – Vic Kasper?” 

Thursday’s hand tightens briefly on his pipe before he lifts it carefully from his mouth. “Formally, he’s still in town, sir. Informally, I hear he’s moving north, fast. Now that Vince’s landed the Fletchers in it, all their lackeys – and like as not some fledges – are looking for a pound of flesh and Vic’s the nearest thing going. He’ll probably pick up some crypt and go underground for a few years until the London boys cool off.” 

Bright stiffens. “I will not have a turf war in the middle of the Broad, Thursday. If there is going to be some sort of battle royal waged –”

“It won’t come to that, sir. Vic was elbowed out of Mile End; he hasn’t the resources to make any sort of fight. He’ll run. He’s already running – and we should let him.” Thursday speaks calmly, evenly, still holding his pipe – it’s beginning to die now. 

Although he’s advocating for it – he could hardly do otherwise, it’s clearly the best option – the inspector doesn’t entirely mask the frustration in his tone. 

Bright would dearly like to know the history between these two men – or rather, the man and the monster. But Thursday is clearly not to be needled on this topic: men who are willing to go alone with single-action revolvers into vampire nests have vendettas which extend beyond rank, and sometimes reason. 

“Oh alright. But if there’s any sign that he intends to stay here I am to be informed immediately.”

Thursday nods easily. “Yes, sir.”

Bright turns and makes his way out of Thursday’s office. It’s ironic, really; of all his men Thursday would have been the last he would have expected to come up with this searing grudge – the man makes no distinction between those who are more deserving of his precious time, and those who are less so. The police, after all, as Division is never behind in pointing out, are here to serve the people. Sometimes, Thursday’s dictionary is dangerously misaligned on this front.

Bright shivers again as he crosses the office floor; he can only hope Thursday isn’t going to play up this afternoon – the man has certainly not been himself lately. 

\------------------------------------------------------

Only three days into Morse’s absence and Strange has already cadged his typewriter, his pencil-sharpener, and his paperclips. He had never quite realised how much time DCs spent on paperwork before. 

“You done those forms up on last week’s shop burglaries?” asks Jakes, glancing over. The sergeant’s desk is littered with the detritus of both the Kasper and the Coke-Norris cases – files, incident reports, pathology reports, forensic summaries; Strange hasn’t seen the surface for days. He and Thursday have been working both, and leaving Strange to take care of everything else as best he can. Which, given he has only Morse’s sparse notes to rely on, has been no easy task. 

“Well, yes, but…” Strange digs out the type-written forms and looks at them skeptically. 

“But what?” Jakes gets up, tapping the ash from his cigarette, and meanders over to glance at them. “Think that’s enough, do you?” He quirks an eyebrow, looking at the one line summaries.

Strange sighs. “There’s just nothing more in the notes. I could re-do the interviews…” 

“Morse’ll be back tomorrow, maybe the day after. It can wait ‘til then.” He takes a drag on the cigarette. “How d’you reckon you got on with your sergeant’s, then?” 

The exam had been written the day before, eight or so men in the downstairs lecture room writing in silence for two hours. Morse had, of course, been conspicuous by his absence. 

Strange shrugs helplessly. “Thought it was alright at the time, but now… never looks as good in hindsight, does it? You start double-guessing yourself, and before you know it seems like the entire thing went wrong.” He’s been feeling it more and more today, that vague sense of failure and the accompanying cold pool of shame swelling in his gut. It doesn’t make wading through Morse’s almost incoherent notebook as he tries to do the DC’s work for him any easier. 

“’S just nerves,” says Jakes, brushing it off with a casualness which for some reason also irritates Strange. “Why don’t you fetch yourself a cuppa? Look like you could use one.” 

This, Strange knows, means Jakes wants one fetched for him as well. He nods slowly and stands. With Morse gone he is here, after all, only at Thursday and Jakes’ say-so. “Can I get you one?”

“Might as well. There’s a hell of a draught in here today.” The sergeant shivers, although the smoke from his cigarette rises straight and true. 

Strange fetches the tea from the canteen and returns with it up the back stairs, nevertheless meeting a couple of PCs and taking the expected chaff – “A bit late for elevenses, isn’t it, Jim?” “Do they have you polishing shoes as well?” “Expect he’ll need his sergeant’s for that, won’t he. Don’t want to start a man on too much responsibility too soon.”

Strange gives a half-glare in return. “Yes, yes, you’re a real laugh, the pair of you.” 

He shoves on past them, tea nearly slopping out of its cups, and continues on up the stairs and along the hall to the CID. He nearly slams the cup down on Jakes’ desk, the sergeant looking up in surprise.

“Burnt my fingers,” lies Strange, returning to his own – temporary – desk. 

He’s more irritated by the whole thing than he ought to be. Gossip – and dirt slinging – is par for the course in the nick, and he’s always managed to keep an even keel through the tempests that rock the station, even when some of the mud has been landing on him. As for Jakes, well, sergeants are sergeants in uniform or out of it. He’s not the first to expect to be catered to, and Strange is certain he won’t be the last. 

It must, as Jakes said, just be nerves. The crack about his sergeant’s stung – still stings. 

On the other side of the room, Bright hurries in looking flustered; behind him is a tall rather suave man in a suit. Strange has seen him before, but can’t place him. “Thursday,” snaps the Chief Super, reedy voice taut. 

Thursday emerges from his office, face a mask of polite attention. At Bright’s signal he crosses the floor and follows the two men towards Bright’s office.

Strange glances at Jakes to ask him what on earth that was all about, and sees that the sergeant has just upset his tea all over his desk, soaking half the papers on it. He doesn’t seem to have noticed, is staring stiffly after Bright and Thursday. 

Strange gets up hastily and whips out his handkerchief, hurrying over to rescue the paperwork. At his sudden appearance Jakes looks down, then leaps to his feet, cursing, and does the same. Between that and some paper towels hastily fetched from the lav, they’re able to mop up the worst of the mess before it turns the papers into goop. 

“Who was that?” asks Strange, waving some of the most important papers to dry them.

“What?” Jakes, now wiping up the floor, glances over at the corridor leading towards Bright’s office. “The Assistant Chief Constable.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the case, though,” says Strange, puzzled.

“That’s Thursday’s problem. I’ll go fetch some more paper.”

“I can –” begins Strange, but Jakes is already gone.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Jakes sleeps poorly despite the lanterns and lamps left in his windows to keep the darkness at bay, his dreams filled with flames and fear. 

He picks Thursday up a little later than usual; the inspector makes no comment. His face   
in the artificial light cast by the streetlamp is worn, clawed as if from a too-close shave; Jakes suspects he may not have been the only one who slept poorly last night. 

“Solstice today, sir,” comments Jakes, fishing for something to say to fill the void – it is, after all, not an occasion for glad tidings. 

“Hope we don’t lose too many poor sods this year.” Thursday is staring morosely out at the grey pre-dawn morning. Many of the houses they pass still have lights in their windows, tiny bulwarks against the waxing dark. But there are always those who weren’t careful enough with their seals, or who are caught out alone on the black streets in the witching hours, or who are just plain unlucky and who fall victim to something too old and cunning for their seals.

They drive the rest of the way in silence. 

Strange is already at the nick, rather sulkily redoing those papers from yesterday’s mess that couldn’t stand looking as though they’d been used to mop up after a sick cat. Thursday sequesters himself away in his office without bothering to leave any instructions; Jakes, frankly, couldn’t care less. If everyone in the CID wants to have a sudden temper, that’s just fine – he has more than enough work. With Morse gone and Strange too green to be useful on major inquiries, the legwork on both the Kasper and Coke-Norris cases has fallen to him, on top of his other assignments.

Jakes settles himself at his desk and opens the first folder in his pile and finds there: yellow stains, an acrid smell, _shame_ – he blinks, hard. It’s just yesterday’s papers, stained and slightly rank from the spilt tea. 

He forces himself to take a deep, shaky breath and sets that folder aside. Pulls out one that was near the corner of his desk, untouched by the spill, and opens that instead. 

It was the visit from Deare yesterday. Even now, he still has to stop himself from starting whenever the office doors open. The bastard hardly ever comes to Cowley station, and when he does, it’s just to see Bright; the hell did he have to come to the CID office for?

“Sergeant?”

“What?” snaps Jakes, fingers slipping on the keys of his typewriter and inadvertently adding an unneeded G. He curses. Strange gives him a cautious look.

“Just wondering if this ought to be re-dated?” he holds up one of the forms he’s working on.

“No,” says Jakes shortly, continuing on with his typing. It’s not a court document, it can stand a few mistakes. 

“Right,” mutters Strange, and goes back to his work. 

He just needs to find his balance, re-lock the past firmly behind its steel doors and – out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of a heavy-set man in a suit, dark hair. He’s halfway to his feet, heart in his throat, before he recognizes Donnahue, one of the Vice DIs. 

Jakes drops back into his seat and pulls out a cigarette with a shaky hand, jamming his elbow against the desk to hide it. He closes his eyes to try to savour the nicotine rush, but there’s a tiny creak as the office door swings open and his eyes snap open, heart leaping uncontrollably. 

To hell with this; he needs some air.

Jakes shoves his chair back and heads for the door. Strange looks up after him. “Sarge – what about the evidence forms?”

“Use your bloody brains; I’m not your nursemaid,” snaps Jakes, and slams out of the office.

\----------------------------------------------------

Thursday works through the morning with his office door tightly closed and both his windows open, despite the cold air. He rarely opens them except on the hottest summer days; his office over-looks the motor pool and beyond it Cowley’s busy centre and the noise is at its mildest an irritant. But today somehow the background hum of engines, honking and the distant pealing of bells seems preferable to the heated conversations that seem to continually be breaking out in the CID office. 

There’s no occasion like winter solstice for winding everyone’s nerves right up to the snapping point. 

Thursday had intended to finish up the paperwork on the Coke-Norris murders this morning; Bright has been buzzing around him like a mosquito these past two days to get the Coke-Norris mess cleaned up, and if he doesn’t get it done soon he knows he’ll lose his capacity to give the DCS a civil answer as to why he hasn’t. 

The truth is, though, that neither his heart or his mind are in it today; haven’t been for a couple of days. Every time he sits down at his desk to stare at the half-completed forms, pen in hand, his eyes inevitably train to the mantelpiece and the picture third from the end, as if drawn by a magnet. 

He’s staring at it now, has stopped writing again and turned to look without really noticing, pen leaving a weak line on the page where his fingers went slack. A young man and woman, smiling with the kind of self-contained joy that love brings, against a background of plain East End brick. Prue gave him the picture off her own mantle when he asked for one, lifted it right down frame and all without hesitation and wrapped it up in a handkerchief to protect the glass. 

He stands up, the fountain pen’s metal lid slipping away as he moves; it hits the floor with a hollow sound like an empty cartridge hitting the ground. 

Thursday stops. It’s a sound that will always stop him, a sound he still hears in his dreams and, when the days are short and he’s alone, in his memories. The sound of a single metal cartridge hitting cobbles in silence. 

He strides over to the picture and flips it to lie surface-side down against the mantle, hides Mickey’s smiling face. But even as he does so he knows he can’t, fingers twitching back out towards it indecisively. He’s being weak, hiding from the truth. 

He flips the picture back up to stand properly again, eyes turned away, before striding back towards his desk and pushing his hair out of his face; it’s damp with sweat.

On the way there he kicks the pen lid; it skitters across the floor to strike onto the fireplace hearth, making a sound – like a bullet cartridge hitting worn stone.

Thursday stops, eyes sliding tightly closed. 

For just a moment he can smell coal smoke, gunpowder, and the soft almost musty scent of ash drifting up into the cold night air. 

“Inspector Thursday!”

Thursday’s eyes fly open as his office door slams into the wall, blinds rattling against the glass. Bright. 

Thursday revolves slowly to face his superior, movements heavy, tense with the effort of not reacting. 

Bright is practically vibrating with irritation. “I’ve just received a call from the review board; they have yet to receive your paperwork on the Coke-Norris shooting. We can’t stand to fall behind on this, Thursday; you know the kind of scrutiny that gets turned on police shootings. I told you yesterday: Division is watching for a very speedy resolution to the whole matter.” 

“It’s an open-and-shut case, sir.” 

“Well it won’t be until that bloody paperwork gets submitted,” snaps Bright, eyes flickering over Thursday’s rather bare desk. 

It takes the patience and judgement built up over six years of dealing with officers who couldn’t tell their heads from their arses to swallow an irate rejoinder. “Yes, sir,” he manages stiffly instead, staring over Bright’s shoulder. 

The DCS gives him an unimpressed look but accepts it and marches out of Thursday’s office without bothering to close the door. He shouts something at Jakes as he passes; the sergeant answers testily back, and Bright explodes like a small firework.

Thursday forces himself to leave his office, but Bright’s already striding furiously away. Jakes is at his desk, head down, smoking a cigarette with quick harsh drags. His ashtray, Thursday notes, is nearly overflowing. 

And suddenly Thursday smells it again – coal smoke, at first, but then under it the more acrid burning scent of gunpowder. And finally, mixed in almost delicately, the smell of ash in cold air. He can see it almost, if he closes his eyes he _can_ see it, can see Mickey Carter lying there in front of him. 

Thursday steps back abruptly into his office and closes the door. He’s sweating despite the chill, hand shaking against the smooth wood of the door as he stands behind it, taking deep breaths and waiting for his turn to pass. 

When he finally feels right again he crosses the office back to his desk and sits. For a moment he looks down at the papers on his desk; the forms Bright wants are mixed in with the rest of the unappetizing mess. But even as he begins sorting through them to pull out the right sheets his eyes slant up, tracking to the mantelpiece. 

There’s a frigid breeze blowing from behind, slicing past his neck. The air is cold tonight, but he can hardly feel it – his racing heart is burning away winter’s touch. The only way he knows it is by the smell, mixed in with that of coal smoke and gun powder. His hand is still clawed around the revolver’s handle, the trigger digging into his index finger. 

At his feet, Mickey Carter’s unfocused eyes stare up at the clear night sky, spread with stars. At Thursday watches, his fingers blacken and twist inwards, shrivelling before disintegrating gently. Slowly, silently, his murdered bagman turns to dust, even his last remains stolen by the monsters who took everything else of him. 

After what seems a very long time, Thursday hears something ringing. He blinks – once, twice – and sees the telephone on his desk. He stares at it for a moment, and then slowly picks it up. “Hello?” 

“Sir – you are there. I know you said you might meet the train; I didn’t want to take a bus and miss you. I’ll catch the next one.”

“Morse?” asks Thursday, slowly, the name rolling lethargically off his tongue. He remembers Morse, remembers – a young man, lying, on the floor, blood…

“Yes, sir,” says the voice, with a hint of worry. “Is everything alright, sir?”

“Fine. I – meet the train, you said. I can fetch you.” He forces himself to latch onto the words, make sense of them. His thoughts are so foggy, so unclear.

“You don’t have to, sir, I can –” 

“I’ll leave now,” says Thursday, rising. He feels unsteady, as though he had been running, and leans his hip up against the desk. “Wait for me,” he orders, and hangs up.

Outside in the main office, a young man in a suit is lighting candles in the windows. He spins around as Thursday comes out, dropping both candle and match. He doesn’t even look at them, staring wide-eyed at Thursday, back hard against the wall. “Well?” says Thursday sharply, trying hard to remember his name. “Pick them up, man!”

The man – Jakes, DS Jakes – swallows but then stoops to do as he’s told. 

The other desks nearby are empty; Thursday ignores this and carries on out the office and down the back stairs to the motor pool. 

It’s still light outside, although the sun is low in the sky, shadows painted long on the pavement. Thursday stops for a moment in the doorway, confused without knowing why. The feeling of strangeness abates after an instant, though, and he continues on. 

When he arrives at the station it is to find Morse is standing outside with his suitcase, weight cocked to one side. His eyes are very piercing in his pale face, blue eyes turned to the sky, blood –

“Hello, sir. Sir?”

Thursday blinks and nearly startles; Morse has gotten into the car, is sitting beside him, staring at him. “Morse. Hello.” He lets out the clutch and pulls out of the station drop-off zone, turning away from his bagman. He can’t look at this lad, can’t look at either of them. 

“Is everything alright, sir?” he asks, again.

“I told you – fine. Bright wants you to give your statement for the internal review; do it as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” says Morse, quietly. 

It’s good, driving. Easy to focus on, easy to keep his eyes on the road and his mind bent on the traffic ahead, the signals and the careless pedestrians threatening to disregard them. Easy to keep his attention away from the passenger seat. He takes the quickest route, sticking to the A roads, already busy with motorists in a hurry to get home before the sun sets.

“Where are we going?” asks Morse.

“The nick. You need to give your statement,” repeats Thursday, eyes forward.

“Right,” answers Morse after a moment. He doesn’t say anything else, and they make the rest of the trip in a welcome silence. 

It’s dusk by the time they arrive back in the motor pool, the sun disappeared behind Cowley’s long brick factories. A PC closes the iron motor pool gates behind them; it’s not a custom usually observed, but it will be tonight. 

Thursday parks the car and gets out, heading inside without waiting for Morse; he hears the lad hail him before diving into the back seat for his case, but Thursday is already stepping through the station’s back door. Morse has his instructions; he can carry them out himself.

The walk up the back stairs seems longer than usual, his body torpid, heavy. The last few steps are a real struggle, only his momentum carrying him forward to the landing. The air up here is cold, as though the windows have all been left open.

He pushes the door open absently, moving out of habit rather than thought, and stops. The air here is even colder, night already come. 

The inky blackness of the London night is laced with the smell of coal smoke and the gunpowder rising from the revolver in his hand. And soft, dark, dust. In the distance, someone whimpers quietly. 

“Thursday!” barks a voice out of the darkness. Thursday blinks, and a short form half-emerges from the shadows. “Where the hell have you been? None of that work’s been touched – it’s insubordination, damn you, and if you imagine I’ll stand for it –” 

Beside him there’s a breath of wind, and then a low, shocked voice says, “Good God, what’s happened here?”

Thursday turns to look, but whoever it is is already striding swiftly past him. Thursday tries to watch the stranger but he loses sight of him in the darkness of the London night, his attention so utterly focused on the man at his feet. On his grief, and paired with it his own wretchedness.

A moment later a spark flares in the night, a tiny orange plume. By its light, Thursday sees – a young man with red hair holding a damp handkerchief in one hand and the match in the other. He pulls it along in a straight line in front of him like a blood mage drawing a sigil.

As it passes before his eyes the flame of the match catches on a tiny invisible thread hanging in the air. It burns like steel wool, turning from gold to red to black, and then snaps. The whole process takes only a few seconds. The flame runs out to both ends of the thread – on one side searing down to the ground and stopping. The other end rises towards the ceiling where it meets with dozens, no, hundreds of other tiny threads. They have spread throughout the CID – throughout the main room, into Thursday’s office, to the administrative wing, everywhere. The fire spreads from one to another until they are all alight, the twisted fiery nest collapsing with the high, almost inaudible sound of wet wood burning – it sounds like shrieking. 

As the last of the threads burn away into nothingness the darkness falls from the office, the haze disappearing from Thursday’s mind. He looks around to see Morse screwing shut a bottle of ethanol, the first aid kit open on the surface of his desk beside him. Further back, Jakes is pulling himself up to stand by the window, wiping his face and shaking his head as though trying to throw off cobwebs. At the spare desk, Strange is getting slowly to his feet, looking confused and scared. All around, men are looking about like dreamers awakening, many looking shocked, some looking frightened.

And right in front of him in the centre of the room, Bright is turning slowly around also, taking stock, face pale. “Constable Morse,” he says, slowly.

Morse puts down the bottle and the handkerchief and steps over. He’s favouring his hip, Thursday notices. He ought’n’t be here – only just back from his father’s funeral, and the shooting. But – he brought him, Thursday knows. It had seemed so important, a few moments ago. Or he had simply lost the ability to distinguish what was important from what wasn’t. 

“Sir,” says Morse.

“Did you just intentionally set fire to the office?” asks Bright, calmly, but with an undercurrent of dangerous anger.

Morse pauses, glancing at Thursday, before answering. “There’s been a dire weaver nesting in here, sir. Probably for days. They weave the nests slowly, so you don’t notice the nightmares. They usually only come out at night, so probably no one here felt it.”

Thursday sees nods around the room. It’s probably true; unless there are urgent investigations underway, CID doesn’t work nights over the solstice. 

“The only way to get rid of the nests is to burn them, sir, but the fires aren’t usually dangerous to us. We’ll need to watch to make sure it doesn’t return, and check the seals –”

“I think we are all well aware of what needs to be done, Morse,” interrupts Bright. “Why are you here? I thought you were returning from your family today; you shouldn’t have come in.”

Morse gives him a cautious look. “I understood there was some paperwork to do, sir.”

“That can wait for tomorrow. You’re best off at home on a night like this – Sergeant Jakes can take you. Thursday, a word if you please.” He glances sharply at Thursday, and turns towards his office. 

The entirety of the CID is standing in silence, most of them watching the scene that just unfolded, dumbstruck. Morse stands uncertainly beside Thursday, the unconscious centre of their attention. 

For the first time since he entered the office Thursday takes proper stock of his bagman. He’s still wearing his car coat, face and hands pale from the cold outside air, but there’s a tiredness to him that makes Thursday wonder how much of his pallor will abate with proper warmth. He’s standing with his weight canted on his good hip, right arm held out almost unconsciously to create a barrier against jolts or jostles. And, just at the moment, he’s staring after Bright with the expression of a man who’s just received a blow.

Thursday puts a hand on his shoulder, pushes him gently towards Jakes. “That’s alright, you go home. I shouldn’t have brought you in; wasn’t myself. None of us were; took someone from outside to see that. Thanks to you, we’ll be able to sleep tonight. Right?”

“Yes, sir,” says Morse, a little dubiously. But most of the shock and disbelief falls from his face and he nods, picking up his suitcase from by the door to the office. He goes out with Jakes, leaving a bottle of ethanol and a damp handkerchief behind him. The first threads had to be primed with something, after all. 

Thursday takes a deep breath, and walks down the narrow corridor to Bright’s office. 

He finds Bright standing with his back to the door, staring out the window. He’s smoking a cigarette, smoke rising in a thin blow column. “Inspector Thursday?”

“Yes, sir.” Thursday closes the door behind him softly.

“It won’t do,” says Bright, after a minute. His voice is very dry, low and cracking. “I’m sorry, Thursday, but it won’t.”

Thursday pads forward to stand in front of the desk. “What’s that, sir?” he asks, steadily.

“Morse. You saw him just now –”

“I saw him save the sanity of half the CID – maybe the lives, as well, sir.” He adds, thinking of the difficulty with which he mounted the stairs. 

“At the risk of immolating us all,” snaps Bright, swivelling. “If he suspected such a threat, the proper thing to do would have been to notify us – or another ranking officer within the station,” continues Bright, railroading over Thursday’s nascent objections. “Instead he chose to waft ethanol about and set it alight without any knowledge of how large the infestation was; what if the webs had gotten into the filing cabinets? Or the roof?”

“The webs are almost entirely insubstantial, sir, more malice than anything else; they’re just there to stir up and milk grief and anxiety. They don’t burn with any heat.” 

“I’m still highly displeased Thursday. Morse needs to learn to do things by the book, especially in high-risk situations. Perhaps more dangerously, though, I think it’s very unwise to have a grief-tainted officer in the station at this time of year –”

“Sir, you can’t think the weaver was attracted to Morse, he hasn’t been here since before –”

“ _Especially_ ,” continues Bright, sharply, “one who was originally responsible for renewing the seals earlier in the year. 

Thursday pauses, staring at his superior. Then, very carefully: “Are you suggesting that Morse was negligent in his duties?”

“No, Thursday; there’s no evidence of that – at least, not at the moment. But setting seals can be a personal business, as you know – the setter can leave a little of one’s self behind. I won’t allow this station to be compromised; not again. I think it would be best if Constable Morse were stationed somewhere else until he has recovered from his injury, and his bereavement, and the winter is out. I’m sure something can be arranged with County.”

“Sir, I’m sure there’s no danger – I can keep an eye on him –”

Bright gives him a steely look, grinding out his cigarette. “My mind,” he says, firmly, “is made up. If Morse would like to take some leave over Christmas to sort himself out, that is entirely in order. I may leave you to inform him?”

Thursday can only nod.

\----------------------------------------------------

Jakes drops Morse off outside his building, offering, rather shockingly, to carry his case up for him. Morse declines and the sergeant shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He seems on the verge of saying something else, but then thinks the better of it. “Night,” he says, simply.

Morse nods and shuts the door, hearing the car pull off as he fishes his keys out of his pocket. 

He stops at the foot of the staircase for a moment to stare up in a kind of bleak despair. Earlier this morning the surgeon gave him a prescription for some pain killers but he hasn’t had time to fill it, and now that the initial sedative has worn off his hip feels as though it was sewed shut with red-hot wire. 

It takes him nearly five minutes to limp up the two flights of stairs, leaning heavily on the arm rail by the end. After the requisite impatient fumbling with the keys at the door, he stumbles into his flat, dropping his case immediately and heading for the mantelpiece. There’s a bottle of scotch there and he swipes it, collapsing into the nearest chair and grabbing a glass off the bookshelf-turned-counter behind him. 

The first glass disappears too fast for him to notice, leaving nothing but a scorched throat. He forces himself to drink the second more slowly, less to savour the taste – it’s cheap swill – than to keep himself from emptying the bottle in one go. 

Morse puts the glass down and looks over towards the kitchen. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, but he can’t imagine there’s anything edible left there. Sighing, he gets up and makes his way across the dark flat, switching on lights as he goes.

Sure enough, he finds the refrigerator nearly empty of consumable products – he throws out the half-eaten sandwich and the nearly solid cream – and the cupboards not much better. All there seems to be is a tin of tuna fish and some pickles. Typical.

He eats the tuna out of the tin standing over the sink, hip smouldering. From the window he can see the flats across the lane, mostly lit up by this time of night. All have candles and lanterns in the windows, some with tiny strings of lights. He looks around the few cupboards in the kitchen as he finishes the tuna, then pokes through a few of them. Sure enough there’s a box of candles purchased for black-outs, nearly an inch wide and six inches tall, made from cheap wax that doubtless burns with a greasy sheen. He digs out a few and some saucers and makes the round of the flat, setting them in the windows and lighting them with the matchbook from his pocket – the one he’d dug out of his desk back at work. 

He finishes up at the window by his bed, pulling the curtain high to keep it out of the way of the flame and watching the one lone candle burn in the darkness. A tiny light, all alone. He shakes his head at his sudden unexpected burst of melancholy and turns away.

Morse has just put on a record – _Il trovatore_ – when his buzzer rings. He stares blankly at the wall with a kind of sudden exhausted despair. He’ll have to go all the way downstairs to let whoever it is in – his flat doesn’t face the front of the building, he has no way of knowing who’s there. He toys for a moment with pretending not to be home, or asleep, or in the shower. But the buzzer rings again. He curses, and bangs out the door.

Downstairs, when he finally makes it, he finds Thursday standing outside holding a paper grocery bag. “Thought you might need something to eat,” says the inspector. “Wanted to stop by the chippie, but they closed early. Disgraceful.” 

Morse thinks of the empty tuna tin sitting in his sink, and nods. “Thank you.”

Thursday glances up at the building. “Can I come in?” 

“Oh – of course.” Morse holds the door open for him and lets Thursday precede him up the stairs; it stops the inspector seeing him hauling himself up towards the end by the handrail. 

In the flat Thursday takes the groceries straight into the kitchen, from the sounds of it putting them away as well. Morse shuts the door behind them and closes the lid on the turntable, cutting Ferrando off abruptly in the middle of his aria. After that, all he’s up for is returning to his chair and sprawling into it; he finishes off the rest of his tumbler of scotch.

“How’s the leg?” asks Thursday, from behind him.

“Surgeon says it will mend fine, sir. Just a bit sore at the moment.” 

“Right.” He emerges from the kitchen and pulls out the second chair, sitting down slowly. Morse reaches around behind him and fetches down another tumbler, pours Thursday a few fingers and passes it across the table. Thursday takes it, tipping it slightly to watch the amber liquid run from side to side. His face is curiously blank – not stony or locked down, just bare of emotion. 

“I spoke with Mr Bright after you left,” he begins, eventually, still not drinking. “As Chief Super, it’s his job to worry about the station first, and sometimes that means individuals second. He’s concerned about you and the nick’s safety.” 

Morse feels as though an icy hand has grabbed hold of his stomach and twisted. “I’m not a, a _threat_ to the station!” he manages, somewhere between indignant and horrified.

“No one thinks you are, Morse. Not knowingly, not meaningfully. But at this time of year evil rides high, and it feeds on grief and pain more than anything. Given especially that you re-cast the seals last summer, Mr Bright thinks it would be safest if you spent the winter somewhere else. Give your leg a chance to heal, as well.” His words are almost cheerful, but his tone is raw, gruff, and there’s no light in his eyes.

“And what do you think of this?” demands Morse, truly appalled now.

“I think that we’ve all had a bad couple of days, and you’ve been unlucky enough to have this decision landed on you when risk aversion is at an all-time low. In a few days when things have settled down, I’ll talk to Mr Bright again, see if we can arrange something else, or at least a shorter spell.”

“I’m not a risk, sir. This isn’t – I don’t want to be transferred.”

“I know, lad. And I’ll do my best. But right now, Mr Bright’s in no mood to reconsider, and frankly I’m not in his good books. Try to look on the bright side – it will be light duties in the county somewhere, and that’s not bad experience.”

Morse locks his jaw, forces himself to nod.

“And whatever happens, it won’t be ‘til after Christmas. You can take a few days off to get yourself back on your feet. And you’ll come to dinner, of course. Win’s already got that all planned out – no refusals.”

Morse’s lips quirk upwards very briefly. “Yes, sir.”

Thursday finally downs his drink, swallowing it in two quick gulps. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to dash. Win worries otherwise, tonight. I’ll call round tomorrow about your statement, and anything else that needs fixing up, alright?”

Morse nods. Thursday stands, grabbing up his hat, and heads for the door. He stops in the doorway. “We’ll make the best of this, Morse – however it turns out.”

Morse cants his head to the side, unable to call up a smile. “Goodnight, sir.”

Thursday gives him an understanding look. “Goodnight.” He leaves, closing the door behind him.

Morse turns slowly around in his chair, thin veneer of composure shattering as all his fear and anxiety comes rushing in with the crushing force of a tidal wave. 

He reaches out and picks up Thursday’s empty tumbler; the glass has barely touched his fingers before he drops it, shocked by the intensity of the guilt and anger. A tumbler Thursday was only holding for a few minutes, and not even thinking about.

Morse drops his head into his hands, tangling his fingers in his hand and groaning.

Why now – why of all times is he being sent away now, when everything is falling apart?


	10. SCEPTER'D ISLE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse returns to Oxford to pick up the pieces, only to find he may have left it too late.

The pub is busy for a weeknight, full of talking and laughter and clinking glasses. Morse waits alone in a corner behind a tumbler of scotch, shoulders hunched and elbows well in as he watches the crowd enjoy their drinks. The table he’s secured is tiny, barely large enough to seat two, but he’s already had to fend off several couples searching for better seating. 

The effort of being around all these people is exhausting. The unending, unpredictable cacophony alone is grating, but half the people passing through the narrow aisle beside his seat knock into him. All he wants is to pull his hands into his sleeves and scowl at the world. He makes do with folding his hands on the table instead.

Morse is just turning his wrist to glance at his watch when he spots a familiar trilby in the doorway. He makes to raise his hand but it’s unnecessary; Thursday’s eyes are just as sharp as his. The inspector cuts straight across the room towards him, face breaking out in a pleased smile. 

“Morse!”

Morse rises slowly and allows himself to be clasped on the shoulder, although he pretends not to see the hand Thursday extends – not much of a stretch in the dark corner. 

“It’s good to see you,” exclaims Thursday, jovially, as they take their seats. “We’ve missed you these past few months. I meant to run out to Witney once or twice, but you know how it is, especially with these long nights.”

“I know, sir. The job doesn’t quit.” 

“It’s still not a good excuse,” says Thursday, repentantly.

Morse gives a little shrug. “It doesn’t matter; I’m fine. Just glad to be back. I’ll get you a drink – Pint?” 

Thursday nods and Morse slips out and makes his way to the bar; he can feel the inspector’s eyes on his back as he goes. There’s a mirror behind the bar, partially obscured by stacks of glasses and bottles of liquor. Morse watches it as the barman pulls the pint – if he tilts his head, he can make out Thursday’s face to the side of a bottle of vermouth. Thursday’s brow is furrowed, face drawn, anxious. 

When he returns with the pint, though, there’s no sign of worry in Thursday’s face; he greets Morse with an easy smile and a nod. “Thanks. So what’ve they put you to at County?”

“Mostly desk work. Routine enquiries.” _Drowning in mediocrity_. He takes a drink to calm the wave of helplessness; it pushes it deeper, but doesn’t dispel it. 

“Well you’ve your medical exam next week – once you’ve got that squared away you can resume full duties. Mr Bright has agreed to that.”

Morse glances at Thursday. “When it comes down to it, though, he’ll always put me last. If I upset him again, he can just make up another excuse to get rid of me.”

“I won’t say I agree with what happened, Morse, or even that it was fair, but it wasn’t an excuse. It won’t happen again.”

Morse finishes his drink. “If you say so, sir,” he says, tiredly. He wishes he could believe it. He wishes he could believe in anything. 

He goes home, thirsty again already, and opens a new bottle. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

He gets to the station early on his first day back and signs out the Jag half an hour before he needs to. DI Church almost never let him drive; it’s a pleasure he’s sorely missed. 

For the past three months, he’s tried so hard to convince himself that getting back to Oxford is what he needs. Back to his proper job, Thursday and Strange, the Jag, TOSCA, the city itself. With them he’ll finally be able to unwind, to relax – and most importantly escape the whirlwind of emotions that have been battering him ceaselessly since December. 

He slides eagerly into the Jag, the roar of the engine as he turns the key nearly as stirring as an aria. But the instant he puts his hands on the wheel the spell is broken. Before the leather transferred nothing to him, its surface untainted, silent. Now it’s coated with dozens of weak emotions, pricking at his skin like needles – _anxiety / irritation / happiness / fear / boredom / sadness / excitement._

Morse groans and drops his head to bang against his hands. But the motor pool is no place to indulge in self-pity; there are already other officers picking up and dropping off vehicles. He puts the car in gear and pulls out onto the street. 

For half an hour, he simply drives. It’s barely dawn, the sky a pale rose as the sun creeps up over the horizon. He takes the Jag out on the motorway and puts her through her paces, window down, just to feel the wind in his hair – not even something he usually enjoys. 

But neither the speed, nor the Jag, nor the city itself, brings him any joy. Does anything at all to ease the storm of uncertainty and tension and desperation within him. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

Morse pulls up outside Thursday’s house in good time; it gives him a chance to spend a moment doing nothing but breathing. 

On the porch he hardly has a chance to knock before he’s greeted, door opening to reveal Joan, all alertness and vivacity. She grins and steps aside to let him in; he inches in slowly. “Hello stranger,” she says, eyeing him with mock seriousness. “You’ve lost weight. What’ve they been feeding you at Witney?”

“Mockery and humiliation, mostly,” he answers, leaning up against the wall beside the coat rack. 

He’s always envied Thursday’s ability to make his home into a place of warmth and happiness – somewhere that feels welcoming the moment the threshold is crossed. It envelops him now, wrapping him in a sense of security and calm he hasn’t had in a long time. He almost feels himself relax, just slightly.

“Morse,” breaks in Thursday, sweeping up his hat. Moment lost, Morse nods to Joan, shakes himself free of the house’s sanctuary, and proceeds Thursday to the Jag. 

Today more than usual, Oxford is alive. There’s a current in the air, a sense of excitement and expectation that even Morse, wrapped in his bleak shroud, can’t help but notice. 

1966, the 900 anniversary of the Norman conquest. It seems an odd thing to celebrate. But all along the streets flags and bunting have been hung out, bright posters and pictures adorning shop windows and pub doors. 

The event has the very rare distinction of being completely divorced from both the religious and the occult: a modern, popular celebration. What the youth of today want, according to an editorial in this morning’s _Mail_. A break with tradition, and the fear of the past. 

“You might want to avoid the Broad – because of the parade,” announces Thursday, as they come up on it. Morse swerves into a side street without breaking, Thursday sliding on the seat. “Something against parades?” he asks, wryly.

Morse keeps his eyes on the road ahead – a narrow cobblestone alley. “No, sir. I just… I wonder sometimes, whether things have really changed so much. Whether Britain is really so different now as it was. Underneath the window dressing – language, fashion, technology – how much has our society changed?”

He sees Thursday turn to look at him out of the corner of his eye. “What’s brought this on?” the inspector asks, surprised. “Seems to me in my lifetime alone things have changed more than I ever thought they would. Moon-touched working regular jobs without having to hide who they are, their kids going to school like any other. If they keep integrating this successfully, who knows, the movement for more civil liberties might be successful in another few years. And you – full rights for sun-touched back in the 1880s; surely that’s not nothing?”

“No, sir, it’s not. But what you see is what we’re legally entitled to. What we see is what we dare admit to. Maybe this generation will change things,” he adds, without real conviction. After far more than 900 years of fear and hatred, it’s a hard change to believe in. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

Jakes welcomes him back with a slight hint of real sincerity; Morse can’t help but wonder who they had acting for him in his absence that made him the sergeant’s preferred candidate. 

While he was gone, the CID has reorganized the main room, shuffling the desks about. Jakes points out his new seat and hands him a stack of papers to get started on; Morse barely contains his sigh. More paperwork. 

He’s only barely had a chance to get settled in and started on the forms when an older gentleman is directed in by the duty sergeant and passed off to Jakes, who spends a few minutes talking to him without much apparent interest. Morse listens with half an ear, and only then because he recognizes the man from Witney: a father with a missing daughter. 

Jakes punts him off on Morse to escort out when he finishes with the poor bloke’s statement, such as it is. Morse can hardly bring himself to mind; the man looks too bewildered and forlorn to know what to do next about his daughter, never mind how to make his way out of the maze of the station. 

“Mr Yelland, isn’t it? From Wantage. You came to Witney last week.” says Morse, as he shows the man out. 

“That’s right.”

“What makes you think Frida might have come to Oxford?”

“I don’t know she has. I’m just trying everywhere. She’d’ve called or wrote if she were going off, sooner than fretting me like this. Oh damn. I meant to give this to the other fella.” He pulls out a picture of a girl: pretty, smiling. “Can you help me? Please?”

He takes the picture from Yelland, and with it nearly the full brunt of the man’s anxiety and frustration and torment. 

“Yeah – of course. Try not to worry,” Morse manages, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. He tucks the photo away in his pocket, and they shuffle on. 

“Anything in it?” he asks Jakes, once he’s seen Yelland out of the nick. Jakes gives him a lewd look, cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Girl’s free, human and over 21. Probably run off with the milk man.”

Morse shakes his head and returns to his desk. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

For an event which Morse can’t put any real point to, the parade manages to become tied to at least one, possibly two untoward incidents. A female undergrad is brought in having fired a starter pistol full of paint at Miss Great Britain in the middle of the parade route. And meanwhile, a man falls apparently to his death from the rates office roof while the parade is passing by only a street over. 

Morse tracks the dead man back to his temporary lodging at a set of cabins off the old motor way, and finds there a pad of paper with three short notes. 98018, D-Day, FRIDAY. Or, just possibly, FRIDA Y. 

All he can seem to find out about the man is that no one knows anything about him: not his real name, occupation, or address. Even some of his belongings mysteriously vanish – namely a notebook which was definitely present at the scene. 

He goes home feeling like nothing’s coming together, no matter how hard he addles his brains. 

\---------------------------------------------------

The new flat is even pokier than the last and draughty as hell, although it has the benefit of not being painted dark green. The shelving situation is highly unsatisfactory, leaving half his books lying about in heaps until he can find the time and energy to decide what to do with them. The only things he’s really bothered to take care of are the necessities: the seals, and his turntable and records. 

Through carelessness and ambivalence a good number of his things seem to have been lost or broken in the move to Witney and back, and he finds himself tonight struggling to open a tin with a butter knife. He’s interrupted very near the point of violence by a knock on the door. Morse chucks both the knife and the tin in the sink and goes to answer it.

There’s a young woman standing in the doorway, looking a little shy but smiling hopefully. “Hi.” 

He blinks. “Hello.”

“I’m Monica,” she announces, with the air of someone launching into a speech they’ve practiced in their head. “With the moped? From across the way?”

“Morse,” says Morse. He doesn’t think he’s seen her before – he’s sure he would have remembered. He reaches out to shake and she obliges. 

She feels warm. Oh, there’s some anxiety and uncertainty, and just a little attraction as well. But what he really notices is the warmth of her hand; it’s unusual, calming. 

“Sorry to knock, but you haven’t got a tanner have you? I’ve something on the stove to warm, and the gas has gone.”

“Come in.” He steps back inside and heads to find the small jar of change he keeps for the meter. 

“I’ll let you have it back,” she says, following him.

“Call it quits if you’ve a tin opener I could borrow,” he says, glancing into the sink at the abandoned butter knife. 

“Just moved in, haven’t you?” 

He fishes the coin out of the jar and hands it to her; their fingers brush and he feels just a hint of her warmth again, the calm she wears like a cloak. “Weekend before last.”

“I’ll, uh, fetch the opener.”

He realises very suddenly that he doesn’t want her to leave yet. Even just her presence, her smile – he doesn’t want to be alone. He speeds after her. “You wouldn’t happen to have an iron, would you? Mine’s given up the ghost.”

She pauses at the door, giving him a skeptical look. “Stretching that sixpence, aren’t you?” She holds her curved eyebrow for an instant before breaking into a wide grin, and he laughs. 

\----------------------------------------------------

They’re called in early next morning to investigate the theft of the Second Wolvercote Trove from Beauford college, stolen sometime in the night without witnesses or clues. Initial questioning turns up no apparent leads. 

The dead man off the rates office roof turns out to be a private enquiry agent named Pettifer with a habit of blackmailing the subjects of his investigations. Finding this out earns Morse a concussion and a beating, and his evening ends in his being ignobly dragged home by Thursday – an entrance witnessed, embarrassingly, by Monica; at the sound of her voice he turns his bruised face against Thursday’s collar, the inspector fending her off expertly while opening the door. Thursday maroons him in his flat without his case files, leaving him only half a bottle of scotch and an order to rest. 

There’s not enough in the bottle to buy rest, though, and Morse’s in the next day. He turns up a pawn ticket in Pettifer’s hat which leads to a roll of film negatives; they show the catacombs beneath Beauford college. Iron and silver in hand, he and Thursday find Frida Yelland’s body there, shrouded in cheap flower-print satin. 

It’s raining when Bright sends him over to look at her, the only one among the lot of them who bothered to look at the photo of the missing girl. Heavy summer raindrops are pattering off his umbrella as he crosses the green grass from the corpse to the group of police officers. “It’s her,” he confirms flatly. Not run away for love, or fame, or money. Dead and dumped in a dark tunnel to rot away in the waters. _Of her bones are coral made, those are pearls that were her eyes._ Morse shivers, feeling cold and sick. Beside him Bright and Thursday are discussing the case like carrion picking over bones; he can hear them but they seem removed, a step displaced. 

Watching the coroner’s men beginning the process of shrouding and sanctifying her corpse properly, he can hear her father’s voice, “She’d’ve called or wrote if she were going off, sooner than fretting me like this,” clear as if the man were standing behind him. Yelland’s anxiety and torment are just as sharp, and try as he will Morse can’t push them down. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

There are just too many pieces of the puzzle. No matter how he tries to fit them together, they won’t go. Any two seem to meet, but not all three. Frida, Pettifer, the theft of the Trove. And with a young girl dead, failing to solve this case just isn’t good enough anymore. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

The only thing of note they find at Frida’s house is a jewellery box with a built-in lock; Morse, searching through her dresser drawers, tiredly reads a prickle of excitement, along with the low burn of sentimentality as he runs his fingers over its surface. 

Yelland tells them for the first time that Frida wasn’t his daughter, but rather the child of his wife’s first marriage. It seems irrelevant; her father died in the war, and they lived together as a happy family from the time Frida was a toddler. 

When they leave Morse takes away with him the jewellery box, the only clue Mr Yelland can provide to his daughter’s murder, and Yelland’s grief. 

He, Jakes and Thursday stop at a pub for lunch, sitting outside at the sun-bleached picnic tables. Thursday and Jakes flip through the photographs developed from Pettifer’s negatives while Morse struggles with the locked box, trying to prise it open with his fingernails. 

“Find wherever this is and we might get some answers,” says Thursday, looking through the photographs. They show old run-down cabins, the exterior paint chipping, grass left untended. 

“It’s Pettifer’s notebook we need,” growls Morse, dropping the box into his lap to try to increase his leverage. 

On the other side of the table Jakes pushes out his chair with a scrape of wood against stone and gathers up the empty beer steins. “Same again?”

“No, I’ll have a large one,” says Morse, without looking up. He needs something to quell the grief-topped tide of emotions, dial it back to its usual background roar. 

“He’ll have a pint of Radford’s,” interrupts Thursday, severely. Jakes wilts slightly and vanishes inside. “I’m all for a beer at lunchtime, there’s nothing wrong with that. But when you’re on duty with me you’ll lay off the spirits. I’ve seen too many go that way.” 

Morse meets his stare head-on. “What way?” 

Thursday leans in, voice low and intense. “You think I missed all the bottles ‘round your flat? Six months, Rate you’re going, you’ll have enough to put down for a second hand car. Booze can be a good servant Morse but it’s a lousy master. What’s going on? You alright?”

All around them the other tables are filled with diners out enjoying the spring sunshine, all just yards away. Inside, Jakes is doubtless waiting for his pints to be poured, perhaps chatting up the barmaid, but at the most only minutes from returning. Morse twists his lip, shoving down his despair and desperation ruthlessly. 

“Yeah, perfectly. Why?” He goes back to trying to get the box open, focuses his attention on it instead of Thursday’s trampling on his fragile nerves.

“Sometimes, with a shooting, there can be a delayed reaction after the event.” He watches Morse struggling with the box for a moment, then sighs and pulls his knife out of his pocket. “Here, try this.” 

It’s old, Morse knows, from his London days at least. Silver and iron, the workmanship much more expensive than the usual penknives carried by Oxford’s copper’s. Like most weapons, it’s soaked with tension and fear and determination. 

“The FME’s rated me fit.” He opens the knife and slides the blade into the lock mechanism. 

“In body. Seen enough of it in the war. Men passed A1 and returned to the front line; too soon for some of them. Besides,” continues Thursday, more tentatively, “the FME doesn’t know everything about you.” 

Morse’s head snaps up, blade nearly breaking in the lock as his hand stiffens. Panic flares, and under it the three months of emotions he hasn’t drained – he’s so close to breaking, can feel his composure cracking like a thin crust on lava to reveal the fiery heat below. Yelland’s grief is seeping out like steam, burning him with its intensity. 

“Why would that matter – because we snap more easily? During the war we were exempted from service because being surrounded by men in constant fear for their lives drove us mad, not because we break under pressure. I think centuries of living cheek by jowl with people who would happily murder us is proof enough of that.” 

“Morse, I didn’t mean –”

Morse shifts his grip on the knife, forcing it to turn until the lock clicks. The pressure inside him eases, very slightly, and he forces himself to breathe. “Forget it – I’m fine.” He removes the knife and drops it on the table. 

Jakes returns with the pints as he opens the box to reveal some jewellery, a few letters, and a set of professional photos of Frida Yelland, posing for the camera. The photographer’s name is stamped on the back.

\------------------------------------------------------------

The letters lead them, coincidentally, to the father of the undergrad who let off the paint-filled pistol in the parade – Captain Archibald Batten. They’re letters of commiseration to Frida’s mother on the death of her husband, a private killed in action during the War. Batten has little memory of the husband, and never met Frida. 

The pictures take them to a photography studio in Cowley, a huge concrete warehouse with a bright white set sitting square in the middle of the floor flooded with lights so bright it nearly glows. The studio manager sits on a sofa off to the side with a girl curled at his side, staring lazily up at them through sunglasses as he drawls out haughty, useless chauvinism. Thursday puts up with it far longer than Morse would have, but eventually even he tires and snatches off the prick’s sunglasses. Morse is close enough to see Thursday’s image reflected upside-down in the photographer’s eyes before he turns away, grabbing his glasses back from Thursday. Aswang, one of the few moon-touched easily identified by looks alone, and whose age-old reputation for infanticide behoves them to risk suspicion in order to hide it. But Frida was no infant, and it’s all just propaganda, in any case. 

Finally, with nothing panning out and the day ending, Morse goes on his own to Beauford college as the sun is dipping close to the horizon. He speaks with Copley-Barnes, the young undergrad’s tutor and also closely associated with the Trove. If anything, the man is more of a bastard than the aswang, throwing out lewd suggestions about his student and hammering on Morse’s reputation until Morse takes his leave in disgust, no further forwarder. 

Another summer storm has rolled in, the clouds full of thunder. He listens to it that night as he lies in bed, even the shreds of sleep beyond his grasp. Eventually he gets up and opens a bottle, puts _Lucia di Lammermoor_ on the record player – more from habit than any real hope of comfort – and watches the rain run down the window. 

Slowly, one drink runs into many and the seething mess of second hand emotion twists restlessly under his skin. They are the hundreds of spectres of his past, and listening to Lucia sing her mad song he sees them etched by the lightning flashes on the walls of his flat: the Master of Bailey and his endless condescension; Vince Kaspar, proud and cock-sure; Mrs Coke-Norris, blind in her desperation to fulfil her dream; Copley-Barnes’ insufferable superiority, bought at the expense of others; Bright – vain, jealous and fearful. 

As the night wears on and he pores over the clues over and over, trying to sand the edges off, one by one his guests slip free of the walls. They stride through the flat for seconds, sometimes minutes at a time, intangible but very alive. Inevitably they come to stare at his work, criticising him, insulting him, until eventually the lightning descends to return them whence they came. 

Most of the latter half of the night passes in a mad, wretched blur filled with furious conversations and the shriek of his most atonal music. 

He comes to himself somewhere near dawn lying on the floor in a cold, hard silence. The rain has stopped, as has the record player. His tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth, which has the texture of an ancient carpet. He has a headache the size of Wales, and feels queasy. But staring out the window at the peach-coloured sky, he knows what happened. He knows who did it. 

The man’s standing right next to him, after all. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The full light of day chases the shades away but he can still feel their presence, anchored in his blood. They follow him to Copley-Barnes’ lodgings, grim and silent somewhere behind him as he strides out to find the tutor raking he lawn in his shirtsleeves, all the plants and flowers bowed over from the storm. 

Morse doesn’t bother to obfuscate; he starts off with the tutor’s access to the catacombs, shifts to his lack of alibi for the theft of the Trove, then drives straight on to Frida. With no hard evidence, Morse can’t throw out actual accusations, but he leaves the man in no doubt: he knows the truth. How could he not – the tutor’s own spectre betrayed him.

And at the end of it, Copley-Barnes remains staring at him, completely unflustered. “You’re delusional. Or drunk,” he says, staring down at Morse. “I think you should go.”

“Both,” sneers the second Copley-Barnes from behind Morse; Morse ignores him. 

Morse goes, returning to the nick in a flaming temper to find Thursday and Jakes talking with Bright. “It was Copley-Barnes,” he announces as he kicks his way past a waste-paper bin.

“What was?” asks Jakes, turning around. 

“That stole the Trove from Beauford and murdered Frida Yelland and Pettifer,” says Morse, crossly. “Pettifer was blackmailing him; he stole the Trove to pay him off.”

“Aren’t we catty,” drawls Copley-Barnes, just a hint of a shadow somewhere in the corner behind Morse. 

Jakes crosses his arms, unimpressed. “Pettifer, who was already dead?” 

Morse turns to Thursday, who won’t meet his eyes. “What?” he demands, anger flaring.

“We’ve got the thieves in custody,” says Jakes, more gently, like a man speaking to a spooked horse. “It’s nothing to do with Copley-Barnes. It was the photographer and his mate.” 

“He was a graduate of Beauford two years ago. His name’s on the blow-ups and the exhibition guide,” adds Thursday, in the same tone. 

He’s starting to feel hot – the heat not just of his own frustration but all the other compressed emotions within him twisting rapidly towards the edge of his crumbling control. The other spectres are starting to appear, thin and insubstantial but menacing. 

“There’s got to be more to it than that – that’s just circumstantial!” he spits out, eyes flickering briefly around the room at its new visitors. 

“The sort of evidence one expects from the police,” pronounces the Master, grimly, arms folded in his robes. 

Vince Kaspar cracks his knuckles. “No surprises – Old Fred Thursday, he brings in who he wants to bring in.”

“You remember the model he was taking pictures of when we were there? Her bracelets? The torcs from the exhibition,” continues Thursday; Morse tears his attention back to the inspector. 

“Have they confessed?” He looks from Thursday to Bright and back again. “Or are you just tossing them away because you know what he is and that’s what we do to people like him?” He sees Thursday’s eyes widen slightly, shocked, but doesn’t give a damn. There’s no room in his heart for that, no room for anything, he’s already carrying it all and he doesn’t know how to _make them listen._ “Well, has he confessed?”

“Morse,” snaps Bright, outraged. “A man should be big enough to admit when he is wrong. The Trove has been recovered.”

Morse falls back in the face of Bright’s wrath. The spectres fall silent, fading, as his own shock blankets him in a sudden cold sweat. He turns away and slips out down the stairs to find somewhere cold and dark and alone. 

When he returns to the office, it’s to find he’s been sent on leave, again. Thursday, coldly furious, asks no questions and accepts no excuses. Too exhausted to face the prospect of holding another conversation in the company of any intangible visitors, Morse agrees and staggers out. 

\-------------------------------------------------

Morse has no real memory of getting back to the flat, or indeed of the rest of the day. At some point he comes back to himself enough to know he’s in his bed, shivering but soaked with sweat, and pushes his blankets off to try to cool down. The sun is already low in the sky, thick buttery bands of sunlight lying across his dusty floor; he watches them drift across the room, shrinking, until they disappear. 

Last night’s scotch has finally worn off, and in his aching cut-glass sobriety he can only look back on the past 24 hours in a kind of hopeless horror. He had forgotten how bad it became, at the end, when he was 15. He’s beginning to remember now, the fear like acid in his throat.

Returning to Oxford was his one hope to prevent this inevitability. But he’s going under all the same: he’s out of solutions, out of road, and it seems that he’s just burnt his only bridge.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Morse wakes from a crowded din of voices all trying to speak to him to the sound of knocking. He looks up to find that the apartment is bright again and gets up – perhaps Thursday has put his anger behind him.

It’s Monica, dressed in a full nurse’s uniform, carrying a neat breakfast tray – tea, two boiled eggs, toast with a little pot of jam and a pat of butter. He has the distinct feeling he’s let one of his spectres in, removed from the real world, unaccountable to reason or logic. 

“Your friend asked me to look in,” she says, glancing at him with a hint of concern. 

Thursday? He’s staring, but can’t stop, completely poleaxed by her presence. “You needn’t to have gone to all that trouble,” he manages, gruffly. He should be pleased to see her, wants to recapture the simple ease he found in her company the other evening. But he’s wound so tight he feels like a breath of wind might snap him; he doesn’t know how to relax without breaking. 

“No trouble; I’m used to it.” She smiles a little nervously, and, realising he’s still standing awkwardly in the doorway, he steps back to let her in. 

“You’re a nurse,” he says, to fill the void – possibly the most obvious statement ever made. 

“Was it the uniform?” She smiles. “Just wanted to leave you something before I went on shift.” 

Monica glances around and, seeing the end table, puts the tray down and hands him the tea – it’s hot and smells fragrant. His stomach gives a sudden hard clench, and he realises that he can’t remember the last time he ate. “I tried to catch you the other morning, but you gave me the slip. Try and eat it while it’s hot; you need feeding up.”

It’s her kindness that does him in, he thinks. In the face of all his failures and inadequacies and tempers, suddenly being met with raw kindness unbound by expectations or judgement just cuts the legs right out from under him. He sits down, putting the tea on the table before he scalds himself as his throat starts to close up. 

“Hey now – you’re shaking.” He tries to turn away from her but she circles around to kneel beside him as he loses the thin veneer of control he had held onto until now. It’s too much – all the anger and fear and anxiety and desperation and grief; even the happiness and joy and excitement – three months of it, none of it his, choking him from the inside out. 

“What’s so bad it’s got you this way?” She puts her hands softly on his, resting on his knees. 

He’s so overwhelmed he can’t read her, but he can feel the warmth from her skin, the tenderness in her touch. He looks up slowly, trying to find words for her. 

“A father’s lost his daughter,” he begins, “That has to be put right. If I can’t do that… then I am nothing.” And so he hasn’t, and so, soon, he may be. “I suppose you can add coward to my list of offences,” he adds, with a self-mocking smile to take the bite out of the words. 

Monica squeezes his hand, and he finds the storm of emotions in his head is calming – has calmed enough, at least, for him to feel her compassion. “When your friend brought you home the other night, I didn’t see a coward. Just a man beat up too often, and for too long maybe. You’re not yellow, you’re just blue.”

The words trigger a memory – it falls in like a lightning bolt. He knows where he’s seen the cabins in Pettifer’s photograph, and the satin Frida’s body was wrapped in. 

Perhaps there’s still a chance to solve this case, if nothing else. 

“Monica – you know your scooter? I need to borrow it.”

\-------------------------------------------------------

In the end all it takes to solve the case is the right memory, the right prompt, one cigar, and a handshake. 

It was never about the Trove, or Pettifer. It was Frida. Frida, and the war, and old secrets. Feeling sick, Morse baits his trap and for the sake of Frida Yelland goes to do what he ought to have done a long time ago. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

It’s the middle of the night, streetlamps casting a watchful glow on the pavement below as he walks up the steps to Thursday’s door. 

He has to knock several times before the light behind the door comes on, momentarily eclipsed by a dark shadow before the door opens to reveal Thursday in a housecoat. His hair is sleep-tousled, eyes narrowed against the light. 

“Good evening, sir,” says Morse, sticking to the speech he beat into himself on the walk here. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s important. I – there are two things. The first is that I know who killed Frida Yelland and Pettifer; really know, this time.” He takes a breath and continues on before Thursday can interrupt him, forcing the words out. “The second is that I’m not alright.”

Thursday opens the door, nodding towards the sitting room. “In you come.”

Morse pads through quietly, glancing up at the staircase; it’s all dark upstairs. He’s too full of his own anxieties to draw any comfort from the house; if anything being here while Thursday’s family is asleep upstairs is even more unnerving. He slips into the sitting room and takes a seat in the easy chair, still in his coat. Thursday follows him in, switching on the light and casting an appraising eye over him. “Should I put a brew on?”

Morse shakes his head. “No, thank you, sir.” He doesn’t comment on the lack of offer of spirits. 

Thursday nods once and shuts the door, taking a seat on the sofa and combing his hair back from his face with his hands. He’s wearing a pair of ancient slippers, Morse notices, that match neither his pyjamas nor the housecoat. 

“Now. What do you want to talk to me about?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he watches Morse impassively.

“I think… I should talk about me, sir.” He licks his lips, watching Thursday who raises his eyebrows in silent approval. Morse feels hot, emotions starting to seethe under his skin, and pulls loose from his overcoat. 

“You know that normally I only pick up readings from people, and objects that have strong emotional significance – either because they provoke a memory or because they were used in an emotionally charged situation. Everyday items don’t really carry any emotional charge – things like pens, chairs, doors.”

Thursday nods.

“That’s the way it was until a few months ago. I don’t know why, but since then I’ve started reading from nearly everything. Things that before wouldn’t have registered do now, while things I read before are much stronger.” He clenches his hands together, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles as he speaks, trying to focus on that sensation, on something physical and tangible. Not the fever growing in him. 

Thursday sits up, falling out of his impassivity. “You have no idea why?”

Morse shrugs helplessly. “It started the same time as my father fell ill; it might be related to stress, although I’ve never heard of anything like it. But more importantly, whether because I left it too late, or because something changed… I can’t use my touchstones anymore. They just… don’t work. None of them.” The words nearly catch in his throat, low and sandpaper-rough. He stares at his hands, unable to look Thursday in the eye.

For a moment, there’s just the silence of the house around them, insulating the two of them from the rest of the world. Then: 

“You’re telling me that since December, you haven’t been able to use your touchstones?” asks Thursday, in a disturbingly calm voice. Morse dips his head. “And you didn’t think you should mention this? You didn’t once think – Christ, Morse, it’s only your life – why –”

“And what if I had?” demands Morse, thickly, looking up. “That would have stopped Bright burying me in Witney, would it? That would have made you try harder to bring me back? Would have found you the time to go there?” He’s panting, sweat running down his back and sides. He’s starting to hear the whispers, still far in the distance but recognisably voices. 

“ _Yes_ , Morse, because this is your _life_ and I will always look out for that,” grits out Thursday, harshly. “Only I can’t, when you don’t tell me I need to. I know you find it hard to let your guard down and ask for help, but you damn well need to learn.” 

Morse shoves a hand through his hair and finds it damp; it tangles in the uncombed curls and he twists it in frustration. He stares up at Thursday through his drooping bangs, the shadows on the wall behind the inspector growing darker. He turns his eyes from them to Thursday, desperate, pleading. “Please. I don’t know what to do.”

Thursday softens, eyes kind, inclining his head. “I can see that. It’ll be alright. Come here. Come.” He points at the floor in front of him; Morse staggers to his feet and stumbles to drop at Thursday’s, staring up at the inspector. Some of his professors occasionally ordered them so, strewn about the floor seated on mouldering pillows, supplicants bowed low at the font of wisdom. 

“Turn round.”

He does. He has no fight left; the spectres are coming, their voices growing louder. He starts to flinch away, but Thursday tugs him to sit upright, his back resting against Thursday’s knees. The inspector pulls his tie off and undoes the top couple of buttons of his shirt, then places his hands gently against Morse’s shoulders just above his collarbones.

“Alright?”

He shrugs, tense. He can’t feel anything but what’s blistering under his skin. 

“You need to trust me, lad. I know you’re angry with me about Witney, and about the case. But you’ve got to put that aside.”

“It’s not – what I feel isn’t the problem.” His anger is just the fuse, not the dynamite. He sighs, closing his eyes. Tries to let his frustration go. “Monica. You told her to look in on me.”

There’s a pause, Thursday’s knees shifting against his back. “Yes, I did; she seemed sensible and well-intentioned,” he says, cautiously. “And I thought you might need a friend.”

God, how he had. “Thanks.” 

With that one word he feels the tension start to drain away from his muscles, leans back more easily against Thursday. The inspector holds him there, grip loose but secure, taking as much of Morse’s weight as he needs to to keep him upright. Thursday’s emotions start to filter in – concern, compassion, friendship. They support him as much as his grip – more, much more. 

Morse feels it the moment the stored emotions begin to drain away, flowing like infected blood from a too-long festering wound. They drain fast and thick, very near to painful, but he doesn’t give a damn. They could sear him and he wouldn’t complain – anything to have them gone. 

He hasn’t experienced anything like this since he was fifteen, not close to it. As he sits, Thursday’s constant presence behind him, he can feel veils he never noticed descending being lifted from the world. His mind grows calmer, thoughts smoother, and he takes back the ability to decouple thought from feeling. 

Looking back on the past three months, even just the brief snatches he considers in the moment, is like recalling a nightmare. A twisted, surreal world where everything made complete sense at the time, but which in hindsight is disturbingly wrong. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” whispers Morse, pulling his legs up and propping his elbows on them so he can rub the palms of his hands into his eyes until he sees a red-gold kaleidoscope. It does nothing to wipe out the memories of his descent into complete lunacy. 

“Morse?” He feels a prickle of surprise in Thursday. 

“I’ve been – you’ve done so much for me, and I’ve been completely blind to it.” 

Thursday presses his shoulder. “That’s alright, lad; you’ve not been yourself.”

The very last of the remaining emotions drain away, leaving Morse feeling curiously empty and withered. He pulls away gently from Thursday, wiping his face before pushing himself awkwardly up and taking a seat again in the chair. “I’m alright now – and I won’t let it happen again.”

“We won’t,” says Thursday, watching him intently. “We’ll go on as long as we need to until you sort yourself out.”

Morse nods. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.” 

“Alright.” He shifts, making to get up. “It’s late; you’d better kip here. Buses’ll have stopped by now.”

Morse startles and glances at his watch. “Um, actually sir, I don’t think I can. I told you before that I’d figured out who murdered Frida Yelland and Pettifer. Before coming here, I arranged a rendezvous with her killers as a trap – they’ll be meeting in less than an hour.”

Thursday stares at him, disbelieving. “You did what?” 

“You know I haven’t been firing on all cylinders,” says Morse, impatiently. “The point is, if we’re not there to witness it, we’ll miss the chance. I know I’ve been ill, but I also know they’re guilty. Please, sir; I trusted you. You need to trust me.”

Thursday settles his expression into one of tired patience and sits back down. “I suppose you’d best tell me about it then. Quickly.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

They meet Bright and Jakes outside the holiday cabin where Frida was killed; Morse performs the obligatory kowtowing, apologizing to all and sundry for his behaviour until even Bright cuts him off in embarrassment, excusing it in light of his recent concussion. 

They arrest Frida’s real father – Batten – as well as his mason pal and the man’s assistant. None of it will make one ounce of a difference to Frida, or Pettifer – he knows that now, although he didn’t last night. But it’s still the only thing he can do. 

With a few hours left before true daybreak, Thursday sends him home to get some sleep; he doesn’t protest. Not tonight. He’s driven home by a PC, lulled into a near stupor by the thrum of the car’s engine. 

Back at his building he climbs the stairs up to his flat, strips out of his clothes, and falls into his bed.

He’s soundly asleep in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse paraphrases Ariel's Song from The Tempest.


	11. stolen fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thursday and Morse investigate a disturbing link between several injured and dead individuals who turn up missing more than is at first suspected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that trying to make story arcs which really could be stand-alone efforts into single chapters results in really long chapters? Sorry, I am not being very successful at keeping these short. 
> 
> Warnings: No specific warnings, but this chapter is pretty dark.

Thursday’s standing at the front window watching the black Jag roll to a halt when he smells the gentle scent of Win’s perfume. A moment later her warmth is against his back, pressing a kiss to his neck. He gives a low, pleased hum, revelling not just in the momentary sensation but the deeper throb of happiness. 

What would it be like, he wonders vaguely as he watches Morse step out of the car, to know Win not just by her scent, her voice, her touch – but by her heart. 

Considerably more trouble than it’s worth, is his general feeling.

“Here you are, then,” Win says, drawing around beside him and handing him his sandwich with a smile. He returns the kiss, finishes knotting his tie, and takes his lunch from her. 

Win’s turned to watch Morse coming up the path, his shoulders back and head up. “Looking better, isn’t he?” 

“Doing alright,” Thursday allows, dropping the curtain and heading towards the door. 

“Oh go on Fred Thursday, I don’t know when you’ve been better pleased.” She pats his shoulder as she passes by, heading into the kitchen. “Mind you take care, and come home safe.”

“Of course.” Thursday opens the door just before Morse has a chance to knock, staring into Mors’s surprised face. “Morning, Morse. Let’s get going.”

\-------------------------------------------------------

“How are you?” he asks easily, as they pull away from the kerb. The Jag purrs up through its gear changes; the lad is good with the car, when he wants to be. 

Morse licks his lips, pausing only momentarily before answering. “Fine, sir. I had _Roberto Devereux_ on last night; things still aren’t back to normal, but it’s helping.”

“Good, that’s good. Anything new in this morning?” 

“Actually sir, there is. I had a call from the Radcliffe this morning. They had a Jane Doe brought in last night. Found lying in the street, more or less unconscious, with no handbag and no identification. Hit and run, the woman who called the ambulance thought, except that the hospital found no injuries. She remained unconscious overnight, so they kept her.”

“And she still hasn’t woken up?” asks Thursday.

“No, she has,” says Morse, darkly. “Early this morning. At which point she attacked the nurse who came to check on her, then went for the orderlies called to restrain her. She’s been raving ever since.” 

Thursday raises his eyebrows. “Drugs?”

“That was the hospital’s first thought; they’re running blood tests. But there’s no sign of it otherwise, and apparently she was very well put together.”

“That’s not necessary an indication,” points out Thursday. “The well-off get hooked like anyone else – usually whiling away boredom. She couldn’t have skidded out, I suppose?” 

“Not and still be speaking, sir.” 

“Well, whatever it is, she’ll have to be identified. That’s what they’ve called you in for, I suppose?”

Morse nods. 

“Alright. If she’s just had a bad trip, there’ll be nothing to do but wait for her to come down. But if not…” He glances out at the clear blue day. The leaves are fresh and new on the trees, spring flowers bursting forth from the bud. But just as easily as a seemingly healthy tree can hide deep disease, the bright day conceals the malignancy that still lingers in the darkest hours. Even now, it is never really gone, just beaten back in strength and number. “If something has touched her mind, it may be a long wait.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

With no major cases on the boil, Thursday’s desk is relatively clear save for the ongoing work of supervising his two charges. He signs some paperwork for Jakes, makes a note to chivvy Morse for his, and then spends some time considering a birthday present for Joan over a cuppa. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Morse returns from the hospital looking bleak, face closed and stride weighed down by his thoughts. He takes a seat across from Thursday and just sits silently for a moment, then shakes his head. 

“I don’t know, sir. The hospital doesn’t either. They don’t have the blood results back in yet of course, but the doctors don’t think it’s drugs – not unless she took a huge hit of LSD, in which case we’ll never know.”

Thursday nods grimly; they’ve yet to find a blood test for it. 

“She’s… completely crazed. They’ve put her on the psychiatric ward for now – if her mind was warped by something blood-touched, there’s no trace of the evil itself left in her. She can’t answer questions, just screams at you, mostly nonsense. I couldn’t get her name, address, nothing.”

“Description?” asks Thursday.

Morse leans forward, waving his fingers together as he stares into the distance, remembering. “Young – early twenties. Long black hair, slight build. They showed me her things – her clothes were good quality and a bit understated; her jewellery was expensive. No wedding band. She could have been a student.”

“Could be, you mean,” corrects Thursday. Morse draws back a little, obviously shocked by his slip. 

“Yes – of course. Only…” He turns pained eyes on Thursday, and Thursday is suddenly reminded of all the things the lad hasn’t seen, all the horrors he takes for granted that Morse has yet to experience for himself. “If it is LSD, they say the amount she must have taken has probably damaged her permanently. If it isn’t, then either she suddenly developed a severe mental illness – possible, but unlikely – or something has twisted her mind. And if it’s the latter, the likelihood of a cure is… remote.”

“The doctors’ll do their best for her, Morse.” There’s nothing else to say. Morse is right; his summary is sadly accurate. “What will you do now?”

“Get a photographer in; while she’s sleeping, maybe – she’s hardly recognizable awake. We’ll have to put it in the paper, unless someone reports her missing soon. I’ve got the duty sergeant watching the missing persons cases.”

Thursday nods. “Keep me updated.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Morse has the notice ready to place by noon for the evening edition of the _Mail_. However, when he comes by at the end of the day to bring Thursday his updates and collect him for the drive home, Morse no longer needs the notice

Sara Fletcher, a third year student at Lady Matilda’s, reported missing by her friends. Morse has already been to see her parents; his face is haggard with the burden of the visit. They deny utterly, of course, any history of drugs, mental instability, or dangerous night time activities. 

A hardworking, studious girl, cut down in her prime by some unlucky midnight walk. 

Morse drives him home, mouth scything downwards, and fails to respond to the majority of his questions. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

The next day is quiet; even Morse fails to find anything sinister in the break and entry he is assigned, and they finish it off with a round at the pub. 

Thursday’s just checking his watch to see whether he has time for a second pint when Morse gives a low cat-like cough of disgust. He looks up to see the lad frowning into his stein, eyes slanted to the side, and follows his gaze. There’s a large group sitting in the back corner of the room. Many of the faces are familiar – he’s mostly seen them on street corners, handing out pamphlets. By far the most familiar, however, is Sergeant Jakes. 

“Morse?”

“You know who they are,” says Morse, turning away and dropping his empty glass to the table.

“Yes. But they’re not bothering anyone.”

“They bother me.” He stands, shoving his chair back, and marching out past Thursday. The inspector sighs, finishes his beer in two deep gulps, and hurries out after the lad.

Morse is waiting outside by the car, arms crossed. His blue eyes are glinting brightly in the late afternoon sun, alight with ire. “I don’t care if the Reductionists have never done anything here in Oxford, and never will,” he begins, before Thursday can say anything. “All they do is disseminate fear and hatred, and I won’t make allowances.”

“That’s fair enough, but you need to understand you’re taking a political stance as well as a ethical one, Morse. Be careful how much you air it.”

“I don’t need to be told to mind my sympathies,” says Morse, grimly. 

\------------------------------------------------------

Thursday drags himself out of bed to answer a call at half two in the morning from a half-asleep Morse. A body’s been found in an alley off the Broad, suspicious circumstances. Thursday at least has time for a quick wash under hot water while waiting for the lad to procure a car. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

The narrow alley is awash with lantern-light, a soft creamy warmth that makes a stark contrast to the corpse lying sketched out by its glow. The crime scene boys have been quick to place the sacraments around it, laying the spirit within to rest. Mysterious deaths at midnight make everyone twitchy. 

DeBryn is already there, notebook on his knee, taking the dead man’s temperature. “Inspector. Morse. I’m afraid there’s no identification on him.”

Thursday looks down at the body. A young man, mid to late twenties at a guess, wearing a good suit. No apparent sign of injury, no weapons, no blood. “Cause of death?”

“A mystery, as of yet. Could be a pre-existing health condition.”

“A bit young, isn’t he?” says Morse, looking at the ground around them. 

DeBryn withdraws the thermometer, noting the temperature down in his book. “Time of death between 10 and midnight,” he says, more to himself than them, before looking up. “Not everyone is blessed by good health, Morse. Post mortem will tell.”

“I might be quicker,” says Morse, glancing at Thursday and then at the alley behind them. The photographer hasn’t arrived yet, and forensics are busy out in the street looking for non-existent footprints. 

DeBryn glances at Thursday, who inclines his head, then shrugs. “Help yourself.”

Morse squats down beside the corpse, his head up and gaze focused in the distance. He holds his hands together in his lap for a moment, as if warming them, then reaches to lay his fingers on the back of the man’s exposed hand. 

The next moment he’s on his feet, scrambling away so sharply his shoes slip on the smooth stones of the alley floor. For one terrible instant the only thought that comes to Thursday’s mind is of a white-tiled bathroom in a young woman’s lodgings – of the broken glass and Morse’s terrified eyes. He acts instantly, grabbing Morse from the back and clamping his wrists in a firm grip. Morse flails instantly, elbowing Thursday harshly in the gut.

“Get off me – _get off!_ ” 

Thursday, partially shocked and partially winded, lets go and Morse breaks away, stopping when he hits the wall and pressing his forehead against the cold bricks. He stands there, shaking and panting until his breathing slows, while Thursday and DeBryn stare. 

Eventually he turns around, arms wrapped tightly over his chest. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, in a very tight voice, chin nearly buried against his chest. “That – you surprised me. I don’t know what killed him,” he goes on, glancing down at the body, “but I can’t believe it was natural. He was absolutely mortally terrified when he died. I’ve never known anyone to be anywhere near as frightened. He knew what was coming, and it scared him senseless.” He shakes his head stiffly; looks away. 

Thursday glances at DeBryn. The doctor shrugs. “Won’t know more until tomorrow.” 

“Alright. Keep us apprised,” asks Thursday, and ushers Morse away towards the Jag. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

Thursday drives them back. At this time of night there’s nearly no traffic, and it’s easy to choose the back roads without many signals to have a straight shot of it. He puts the Jag in third and can largely leave it there, allowing Morse to nestle his head against the back of the seat and wrap cold fingers around Thursday’s wrist as they pass like a shadow through the night. “He was murdered – or killed, at least. I’m sure of it.”

“We don’t need to think on that now,” says Thursday, calmly. “Save it for tomorrow.”

Morse frowns, fingers twitching against Thursday’s wrist; eyes closed and in the tones of grey painted by the street lamps he looks like a sleeper having a nightmare. 

Sometimes – most of the time – it’s easy to forget what the lad is. Easy to look at him as just another young copper; brighter and less circumspect than most, certainly. Even when he’s taking Morse’s skills or limitations into account, he often thinks of them as just that and nothing more. 

But at the heart – hah – of it, Morse isn’t human. And sometimes, no matter how much Thursday believes it makes no difference, he does think he may never wholly understand Morse. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

Morse goes out the next morning to help with the canvassing of shops in the block on either side of the alley. The chances of finding a witness are next to none – closing time the night before was six, and according to DeBryn the man died sometime around ten at the earliest. But it keeps him busy, and with no identification until someone comes forward to report the dead man missing there isn’t much else to do pending the autopsy results.

It takes a few hours for the call to come in from DeBryn. “Inspector? I think you and Morse had better stop by.”

Thursday glances out the windows into the CID central office; Morse is just coming in with Strange, both with long faces and rain-dappled shoulders. He holds up a hand to stop Morse from settling himself, tells DeBryn they’ll be there in fifteen minutes, and fetches his hat.

\---------------------------------------------------------

The morgue always feels like its own separate world, self-contained and set carefully apart from everything beyond the heavy iron doors that divide it from the rest of the hospital – and the city. The cold air chills Thursday’s skin as he enters, seeping in under his jacket to raise goose pimples on his skin. There’s a pervasive scent of chemicals and carbolic soap, that along with the large overhead lighting array gives a feeling of cold clinical sterility. It’s offset by the heavy seals reinforcing the doors and windows, so many strong sigils carved in along their frames that they seem to bend slightly. 

There’s a gurney set out in the centre of the autopsy room, sheet-draped corpse lying atop it. DeBryn is arranging his instruments on the counter behind, a long row of fierce-looking metal scalpels, saws and probes. He turns at the sound of the door opening and gives them a nod. 

“You said you had some results?” asks Thursday, glancing at the sheeted form. 

DeBryn puts down a pair of forceps and comes over to stand on the opposite side of the corpse. “Yes. Two things. First, our victim died of heart failure. No sign of congenital heart illness, no sign of disease. Nevertheless, his heart giving out is what killed him. It could have been brought on by some subtle poison – I’m running a toxicological screener, but there’s no other apparent symptoms or suggestions of it.”

Thursday raises his eyebrows. “Sudden heart failure is unusual in the under-thirties, isn’t it?”

DeBryn gives a nod of agreement. “Very. Young people do die unexpectedly of heart failure, of course, usually during some bout of exertion, but it will turn out that they had an underlying condition they were unaware of. Not the case here.” 

“Do you suspect foul play?”

“Hard to see how. It will depend on the results of his blood tests. But if they come back clean, as I suspect they will… ” He cants his head to the side. “You may need to consult your experts on rites. Even blood-touched leave traces, but the occult is a law unto itself and I tread no deeper in it than necessary.” 

Thursday pinches the bridge of his nose. “Wonderful.” Rogue blood mages are, on the whole, less of a catastrophe than blood-touched, but only marginally. “Anything else?” he asks when DeBryn remains standing waiting by the body. 

“As a matter of fact, yes. It’s probably understandable, given the strength of his reaction, but I was somewhat surprised that Morse didn’t mention our Doe’s being an empath.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Thursday sees Morse look up sharply. “What? He wasn’t.” he says, puzzled but firm. 

DeBryn stares back, unfazed. “The contents of his skull say otherwise. I could show you…” 

Morse gives him an unimpressed look. “I’m not mistaken: he wasn’t.”

“You only read him for an instant,” says Thursday, placatingly. “Perhaps –”

Morse shakes his head, cutting Thursday off. “I would have known,” he says, impatiently. “Unless…” he looks from the body to DeBryn, and continues more thoughtfully. “If he had been given strong tranquilisers, I don’t know how that would have affected the reading.” 

Thursday frowns. “You mean drugged?”

“No – the stuff they give us in hospital to damp down our senses.”

“Delphathol,” says DeBryn. Morse nods, tracing round the outer edge of his ear with his thumb while he holds his lip between his teeth as if trying to decide whether to speak or not. After a moment he drops his hand and turns to Thursday, eyes hard. 

“It doesn’t sedate you – just tones down your ability to read. Like I said, they use it now in hospitals to keep patients calm; otherwise being on wards full of fear and grief while we’re ill is difficult and dangerous. But when it was first developed… there were those who thought it could be something else. A miracle cure, a way to make us ‘normal.’ And somehow or another they rounded up volunteers – all young, without parents or whose relatives shunned them – and offered it to them at dosages high enough to completely suppress their empathy.”

The tone of Morse’s voice is enough to tell Thursday how this story is going to end. “What happened?” he asks, grimly.

“Some of them lived, but they were… damaged. Some took their lives. And some just died.” He gives a sad little crook of his lips; his eyes seem very large in his pale face. “We are what we are – our empathy is part of us, as vital as breathing. It can’t be taken away or blacked out, any more than we could have part of our hearts carved out and carry on.” 

Thursday stares at the lad, so full of wrongs to right and without recourse, before turning to DeBryn. “If it was this – Delphanol,”

“Delphathol,” corrects DeBryn.

“Right – will it show up in the blood tests?”

“I can run one to pick it up. Results in a couple of days,” he promises.

“Bloody fool,” hisses Morse under his breath suddenly, shocking both of them. He’s already spinning on his heels, heading for the door. 

“Morse?”

“The girl – Sara Fletcher!” shouts Morse, over his shoulder. “This could have happened to her too.” Then he’s gone, heavy doors slamming shut after him.

“I don’t understand – is this another death? I haven’t heard about it,” says DeBryn.

“She’s a young woman who was found unconscious two days ago and was brought here; she’s been hallucinating violently since she woke.” 

Thursday hurries out after Morse, hardly catching the doctor’s sarcastic, “Oh, well, goodbye then.”

\-------------------------------------------------------

Thursday slams into the stairwell, set to catch the younger man up before he can do something foolish. As it turns out, though, he needn’t have bothered. From somewhere further up the tall stone-walled chamber, Morse’s voice echoes down. 

“ – here on a case. A young woman brought in two nights ago; she was unconscious at first but when she woke up she attacked – oh God, it wasn’t you, was it?” his tone shifts abruptly from narrative to concern, distorted slightly by the effect of the stairwell. 

“No, but it was my ward. The nurse was Becky Sanderson. I heard the young woman was moved to the Psych ward. Has she recovered?” A young woman’s voice; pleasant, concerned. It’s familiar, but Thursday can’t place it. 

Morse doesn’t reply directly; Thursday can only assume he makes some negative gesture. “We’re still looking into her case. And another now as well.”

“How awful. I’m sorry, I’m due – I’ve got to get back. But I hope you can help her.” There’s the clicking of heels on concrete, and the swinging of a door. Thursday continues on up the stairs. He finds Morse standing on the landing, staring out the window in the wooden door.

“Going up?” he asks. Morse turns, the tips of his ears reddening, but hurries on wordlessly. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

They show their warrant cards to gain access to the ward, and then Sara Fletcher’s isolated room. 

In the war, Thursday saw men captured and taken to converted cells for holding – sometimes for questioning. They were usually terrible places, the worst available, stinking holes with only a rudimentary cot and a bucket at best. 

But that had been the war, deep in shelled out villages in North Africa and the starving countryside of Italy. Seeing so similar a place here in the heart of Oxford is staggering.

Sara Fletcher’s room is a beige-walled concrete cell, its small windows recessed behind bars. There is no mirror, no furniture, no blanket or pillow on the pallet with a thin inset mattress bolted against the wall to serve as her bed. The toilet is small and low with a very narrow cistern, and there is nearly no water in the shallow bowl. 

The girl is lying on the bed, long dark hair in a tangled mess about her head. She turns over slowly to stare at them with unfocused eyes when they open the door, but doesn’t rise. She’s the same age as his Joan, even looks a bit like her. He bites his lip. 

“She’s been chemically restrained,” says the nurse, softly. “She was just too upset.” 

“Can she speak?” asks Thursday, gruffly. 

The nurse shrugs. “You won’t get any sense out of her. The doctor and her parents are arranging a transfer to Warneford. She needs more specialised care than we can provide.” 

Thursday turns his attention sharply to the woman at the mention of the local asylum. “Warneford? When would that go through?”

“In a few days, perhaps sooner. Need to wait for the paperwork.” She steps out into the hall, glancing up and down. “I’ll be out here, sir. I need to mind the other patients. Call if you need me.”

“Thank you; I doubt we’ll be long.” 

They wait for her to disappear from the doorway before Morse steps over to Sara Fletcher’s side, bending down. “Sara? Can you hear me?” 

She stares up silently, mouth twisting gradually into a scowl. 

“I’m here to help, Sara. We’re going to find out what happened to you. I promise.” He turns around and puts out his hand. “Sir? I think it would be best if I weren’t focusing on her alone.”

Thursday blinks but takes Morse’s hand as requested. The lad sighs, then reaches out and lays his palm over the girl’s hand. He leaves it there for only a couple of beats before withdrawing it, shaking his head. “We can go, sir,” he says, softly, releasing Thursday. 

“Is she…?”

“No. Right now she’s not much of anything.”

\---------------------------------------------------

Thursday sends Morse back to talk to the girl’s parents. It’s unfair, but if worst comes to worst he suspects Morse will open up to them to get the truth about her – and in turn that they’ll trust him. 

While he’s gone, a solicitor’s office calls to report a clerk missing: a young man named Daniel Bruce, late 20s. His description matches their John Doe. Thursday tells the dispatch room to pass the information on to Morse; the lad will need to speak to his parents as well. And then Thursday will take him out for a drink. 

\----------------------------------------------------

Thursday and Jakes visit the solicitor’s office and find nothing of particular note there. Bruce was on the whole a good employee – quiet, punctual, and generally not very noticeable. 

They’re putting together the file on the glass partition – even without an official confirmation of murder, Thursday’s instincts are twinging – when Morse slips in. He has a fey, unpredictable look about him, like a sputtering flame about either to leap up or go out. 

“Took your time,” comments Jakes, glancing deliberately at his watch. 

“I’ve seen the Bruces; took them to the morgue. They identified the body as their son,” he says, flatly. He looks past Jakes to Thursday, who nods.

“Alright, that’ll do for today. Starting tomorrow, we run the full background on him. Come along Morse; you can get yourself home on time for once.” 

In fact he does, because Morse refuses to go to a pub and instead drives them to his flat. They listen to the local edition of the news on the radio on the way in case there are any bulletins about Daniel Bruce’s death, but hear nothing. 

Morse lets them into his flat, waiting only until he’s closed the door to say, “I spoke to both pairs of parents, sir. Both confirmed, eventually, that their children were empaths.” He leans up against the wall, rubbing his eyes with his hand. “Neither family knew the other victim. As far as we know, their only connection is the fact that they were sun-touched. And that someone took it from them.”

“According to you,” reminds Thursday, gently. Morse drops his hand, eyes narrowing, and Thursday goes on. “We have no other proof – nothing we can use to move the case forward officially. Unless the blood results confirm your readings, we’re stuck working this under the radar.”

Morse pushes away from the wall, temper flaring. “Someone is targeting empaths – that’s a fact. Two in two days. There could be more.”

“I agree Morse – but it doesn’t change the fact that our hands are tied. Is there any way we could warn these people? Putting something like this out in the paper often does more harm than good, incites copy-cats, stirs up ill feeling. Is there any… more private forum to get the message out?”

Morse stands still, staring, for a moment and then walks past Thursday. He takes a bottle down from the shelf and pours out two glasses of scotch, taking a seat. “There’s a … club,” he says, eventually, staring into the rich-coloured liquid. Thursday drifts over and sits down, waits patiently. “I heard about it when I was up; a professor of mine Recognized me, and invited me. It’s not formal, just a get-together for those of us who have secrets to keep to have a place where we’re understood. The only admission criteria is being sun-touched. Nothing really happens, just socialising: games, music, dancing –people bring food and drinks. It meets a few times a month in the evenings in the loft above a store. I only went a few times when I was up; I haven’t been since I came back.”

“Could you get in, now?”

“If it’s still running, I suppose so, sir. It would depend on whether they’re meeting in the next while. The schedule’s set in advance – there’s no administration, and no one has contact information for members so there’s no way to call an extraordinary meeting. But I can speak to some of the dons who were regulars; if it’s still going they’ll know.”

“Alright. If it is, you’ll have to go and make an announcement. Otherwise it’ll be door to door with as many members as you can round up. Does it have a name, this club?”

Morse cants his head to the side, giving a humourless smile. “They call it Embers.”

\-------------------------------------------------------

Morse disappears for over an hour after dropping Thursday off the next morning. He turns up, rather fortunately, just after Jakes has left to interview Bruce’s neighbours about his hours. He slips into Thursday’s office, shutting the door behind him.

“I’ve spoken to a few of the people I remember from Embers who were residents of Oxford, sir. Luckily there’s a meeting tomorrow night. They also confirmed that Sara Fletcher and Daniel Bruce had both attended, although Daniel not regularly.”

Thursday meets Morse’s eye carefully. “Suggesting whoever is doing this is also a member?” he asks.

Morse looks appalled. “No – I – no. I mean, I suppose nothing is impossible, sir, but they would have to be mad. It’s not just probable murder, it’s torture and cruelty combined. And in any case, since some of the members are telepaths it would be a terrible risk.”

“But you said the only people who attend are sun-touched,” points out Thursday, reasonably. “How else would someone know the members?”

Morse shifts his weight, considering. “Perhaps someone has been spying on the venue. Or perhaps someone has been telling a friend about the people they meet there – although that’s also very unlikely.”

Thursday sighs. 

“I did find something else out, sir, although I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“Oh yes?”

“I asked some of the dons I spoke with whether they had ever read anyone tranquilised with Delphathol. One of them had, while her daughter was in the hospital – just a therapeutic dose, of course. But she said she was perfectly able to Recognize her.”

“Suggesting?”

Morse draws his thumbnail down his cheekbone, leaving a fading white line behind. “I think we need to speak with Dr Porter.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------

“Is there any way to take an empath’s gift from them using magic?” Morse doesn’t bother beating around the bush; hardly waits until he’s seated himself in Porter’s cool office overlooking the quad to speak. Like most of the offices in the Rites and Rituals departments, it smells strongly of lavender. It was a smell Thursday used to find pleasant, until he found out what they used it to cover up. 

Porter, in the middle of smoking quite a short cigarette, stares at them assessingly for a moment before removing it from his mouth. “Why?” he asks Morse, his usually cheerful face guarded. 

“We’ve one dead body, and another woman in a locked room on a mental ward. Both should be empaths, neither are. Could someone be using a rite, or some kind of blood magic to do it?”

Porter eases back into his usual more genial self. “Sadly, it isn’t impossible. As I’m sure you know, people have been trying for centuries to use magic to purify those touched by the sun or moon – their words. I would in fact be surprised to find that anyone survived the attempt at all. It makes no difference whether someone is born to the life or turned – once you’re touched the magic that made you is twisted inexorably into the fabric of your being, your essence. To try to take it is to rip that fabric to shreds. There are ways and means – but none of them leave the patient whole.”

“How common are they, these ways and means?” asks Thursday. By his side Morse is silent, face stony. 

“Rare. By the 19th century it had been fairly well established that they weren’t successful, and man had moved onto trying to find a cure in science. Not that that was any more successful – how could it be? But one would need to be a historian as well as a talented blood mage to manage it.”

“So in Oxford…?”

“Well I wouldn’t say you could throw a stone, but there are certainly a couple dozen who would know where to find such information and be capable of performing a suitable rite.”

Thursday sits forward and speaks candidly. “Apart from the obvious motive of hatred, can you think of any reason to do this? Would there be anything to gain?”

Porter stubs out his cigarette, watching the smoke rise. “Did the incidents occur together?”

“No, two days apart.”

He shakes his head slowly. “In that case they aren’t being used as sacrifices in a rite – unless the blood mage is conducting multiple rites in sequence – and obviously they aren’t being used for ritual supplies as one is still alive.” He draws a sigil with the cigarette butt in the ashtray; the smoke turns green, curling like apple peel. “I suppose,” he starts reluctantly.

“Yes?” prompts Thursday. Porter pauses before going on, looking at Morse.

“Everyone who’s touched has magic in them – it’s entirely different than ours. Very old, elemental. Some of them can control it, use it deliberately for their own ends, and others are just affected by it. Sun-touched are the latter. But either way, there’s power there, a considerable amount. And it you sunder the magic from the host, a very talented mage could trap it for their own purposes.”

“And in doing so leave their victim withered or dead,” says Morse, coldly, speaking for the first time in several minutes. 

“That would be understood, yes. There are not many who thirst for power so strongly, but those who do are usually beyond the reach of their consciences.” 

Thursday asks the obvious question. “What would they do with what they stole?”

Porter shrugs. “It’s hard to know. I doubt they could make use of it themselves, to augment their own strength. As I said, the magic is unlike ours – that incompatibility would likely make it impossible. But conceivably it could be used to reinforce rites, or cursed objects. Why the targets are so specifically empaths, I don’t know – I can’t see that it would matter. But I’m only speculating,” he adds, hastily. 

Thursday nods. “Thank you, doctor. We may be back, I’m afraid. Unless you could find out anything more from the victims?”

“It would be possible to determine if they had been involved in a rite or not. That’s about all.”

“Better than nothing. If you could stop by the morgue when you have time, I’ll let Dr DeBryn know to expect you.” Thursday rises and shakes Porter’s hand, Morse following suit. 

Porter pauses in the middle of shaking Morse’s hand, eyes sharpening. “Do we need to talk?” he asks, releasing Morse’s hand slowly. 

Morse blinks, taken aback. “Do we?”

“I think perhaps. An update on the last time we spoke,” says Porter, rather cryptically. Morse is staring at him blankly. Then all at once he tenses as if shot, eyes widening. 

“Don’t tell me – it’s the damned rite. Why didn’t I think of it before?” he drags a rough hand through his hair, fingers stiff and blade-like. He shoves out angrily from between his chair and Porter’s desk, turning to stand with his back to the wall, arms crossed over his chest. 

Thursday gives him an enquiring look; he returns it with a terse scowl. “The rite two years ago left me stamped with some kind of magic – Porter’s kind, not mine. It might stay dormant, or it might play up and start interacting with mine; my empathy. That’s what’s been turning everything haywire.” He grinds it all out through a very stiff jaw, as though he begrudges the effort. 

“Then you were already aware,” says Porter.

“I noticed,” replies Morse, very dryly. “Does this mean you’ll be willing to get rid of it now?”

Porter gives him a sympathetic look. “I’m afraid this makes taking it away no less of a danger to you – if anything it’s more of a risk now that you’re making use of it. The best course by far remains to do nothing.”

Morse’s lip starts to curl upwards, but he suppresses it. He gives Porter a very curt nod and turns on his heel. Thursday thanks the professor, and follows. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Later in the afternoon they receive confirmation from DeBryn that Bruce’s blood tests returned negative for Delphathol. And later still, less helpfully, a call from Porter to say there was no suggestion the man had been involved in a rite. 

“Either you’re looking for a cursed object, or this wasn’t done with blood magic,” is his summary. “If it’s a cursed object…”

“It could be anyone,” concludes Thursday, pinching the bridge of his nose.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing Morse says to him when Thursday gets in the car the next morning is, “There’s been another one, sir.”

Thursday turns sharply. “What? Why wasn’t I called?”

“He’s still alive; the hospital just contacted me. He’s comatose, no prediction on when – or if – he’ll regain consciousness. The same as the others: found alone in the street without identification in the early hours. I was going to go there now…”

“Alright. We’ll both go.”

“Yes, sir.”

\------------------------------------------------------------

In the hospital they find their victim lying pale and unconscious. He’s about forty, brown hair, sallow face, carrying a little extra weight.

As with Sara Fletcher, Morse anchors himself with Thursday’s grip before reading the man; it’s all of a second before he pulls away sharply. He keeps his hold on Thursday, fingers clenched painfully tight around Thursday’s palm as he stares down at the still figure. 

“He knew. He knew what was going to happen,” says Morse, in a low, horrified tone. 

Maybe it’s Morse’s tone, or maybe it’s the ache in his hand from the strength of Morse’s grip. But for some reason, he finds himself vividly recalling one of the worst of his memories of London: Kneeling on the cold cement of the nick’s safe room, air smelling of must and everything a soft firefly-green, waiting impatiently for a blood mage to come and tell them what he could of the muddy stuffed toy they’d found. Questioning why Mann wouldn’t read it, only to be told by his Guv’nor why Mann worked as a police consultant. What had happened to the empath’s two children in the rabid paranoia and fear churned up by the war. 

Morse turns to look at him, slowly releasing his grip. “Sir? Why are you so angry?”

Thursday stares back. “Shouldn’t I be?”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Okay, you’re the expert, tell me: how can our attacker be finding these people?” asks Thursday, as they head for the nick. It’s a beautiful day outside, clear blue skies, the chestnut trees in full bloom, but he sees none of it. 

Morse shifts his grip on the wheel, silent for a moment before speaking. He goes through the list slowly. “Someone could have told him; since it would need to be someone who knew all three, that would have to make it a member of Embers. He could be a member himself. He could be watching the meetings and tracking members. Or it could be unconnected; he could be using a dog and finding people on the street. Or he could be a member of a profession who would be privy to this secret – a doctor, say. The only other explanation is pure coincidental discovery, but unless he’s been waiting years to do this, that’s unlikely. If it is that, though, I don’t know how we could catch him.” 

“Not sure that any of that really helps us,” comments Thursday, darkly. 

“I’ll go to Embers tonight; that will stop anyone talking. With any luck, if he’s a member it might also scare him off.”

“Well you’re not going alone.” When Morse looks over, Thursday continues. “I know; I’ll wait outside. All the better to keep an eye on whoever else may be lurking.”

\-----------------------------------------------------

They return to the nick to find Jakes taping up more notes under Sara Fletcher. “Been talking to some more of the toffs,” he says, turning to lean against the board. “Her friends say she didn’t have much to do outside college, no boyfriend, no particular interests other than swotting. But the porter said different – she went out in the evenings regularly several times a month, usually got back just before curfew. Always the same days, though, and this last time wasn’t one of them.” He’s done up a little calendar, marking off the first and third Tuesday of the month and the fourth Thursday. 

“Any idea why?” asks Thursday, keeping a poker face.

“Not yet,” says Jakes, with determination. “But uniform turned up a witness who saw a dark van leaving the scene where our current John Doe was dumped. No make or model, but the kind used by tradesmen and delivery-men.” 

“Right. Good work.” Thursday nods at the additions to the board.

“Anything new, sir?” asks Jakes, politely. 

“No. Still no cause of death. Morse has been talking to contacts at the university, but no idea how the victims are being targeted.”

Jakes frowns; Thursday pushes on into his office. There’s nothing to be done about his skepticism. It’s his job to follow orders, and he at least knows it.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Thursday’s spent many long nights with just his pipe for company; as stakeouts go waiting in Ship Street below a social club gathering isn’t one of the more onerous. He drops Morse off a little before seven and parks farther down the street, sitting back and watching his constable slip in the unlocked door beside the entrance to a bookstore and disappear into the stairwell. 

He doesn’t bother making note of the number or description of the other attendees; Morse will have it all in his head, and if he ever found out Thursday took advantage of his trust can only guess how severe the consequences of that betrayal would be. He concentrates entirely on anyone loitering in the street, but although there are plenty of passers-by – mostly kids from the university – none of them behave suspiciously. 

He sits passing the time by trying to keep his pipe drawing without refilling it, and when that loses its amusement, polishing the iron-bladed knife he brought. Mostly, though, he spends the time in reflection. 

Really, they only have to make a connection between the attacker and one of the victims; once they have that they can work backwards. Sara Fletcher, with the most regimented schedule and guarded living quarters, seems most likely. 

Thursday blinks. After a moment of reflection, he picks up the telephone receiver and switches on the radio, calls into the nick while keeping his eyes on the empty road and asks the switchboard to transfer him to Jakes’ home number. 

“Hello?”

“Sergeant, it’s me. The porter at Sara Fletcher’s college. Did he say why she was going out the night she was attacked?”

There’s a momentary pause, then, “He didn’t know, sir. It was the assistant porter on that evening. He was out a few times; there’d been some problems with the lights on one of the staircases. She must have left while the door was unattended.”

Someone who knew all about the students – their schedules, their comings and goings – and had access to their rooms and mail. 

“The porter – does he have a van?”

“Not sure, sir. I can check.”

“Do it now and get back to me; the switchboard can find me.”

“Yes, sir.” If Jakes is disgruntled at being sent back to work to fact check at eight, he hides it well.

It takes Jakes nearly an hour to confirm the porter, Alexander McCormack, owns a black Austin A35 van. “Run over to the college and see if it’s there,” says Thursday, eyes on the light above the shop. The gathering should be letting out soon; this close to the university, any students or staff will probably be walking home. “If it is, sit tight and keep an eye on it. I’ll give you a ring in a while.”

\-----------------------------------------------------

The meeting is just starting to let out when the phone buzzes; Thursday picks it up. “Sir? McCormack has just left.”

“Follow him.”

He turns over the engine, sliding forward to sit at the edge of his seat and tapping at the wheel. After nearly ten minutes Morse appears, alone and looking alertly down the street. He hurries over to the car when he sees the headlamps, getting in. “Sir –”

“It’s the bloody porter,” says Thursday, hitting the throttle before Morse has finished closing the door. He makes a sharp turn in the first alley and heads back towards Lady Matilda’s. “Sara Fletcher’s porter. Access to all her things, knows where she is every hour of every day, and drives a black van. He’s just left; Jakes is on his tail.”

The phone buzzes; Morse picks it up. “Morse. Right – what? Right.” He hangs up. “He’s parked on Holywell, sir, west of Mansfield. Just sitting there.”

They make a sharp turn to stop in Catte Street, slipping out of the Jag in the dark and closing the doors silently. From around the corner they can see the dark van; directly across the road is another Jag, and beside it a shadowed figure with the tiny red glow of a cigarette at his mouth; Jakes. 

“Sir,” says Morse, urgently. Thursday looks around the corner again and, straining his eyes, sees someone on foot emerge from the passage through New College into the street. The van door opens and McCormack steps out, greeting the pedestrian. There’s a moment of dialogue, then the pedestrian starts to back away. McCormack grabs their elbow, and when they resist, strikes them across the temple with what looks like a cosh.

The three of them are already running, the two younger men outpacing Thursday. McCormack is dragging his victim to the back of the van, but he looks up as he hears the pounding footsteps. Without hesitation he drops the body, running around to the front of the van. Jakes is already at the back, though, Morse weaving around to the driver’s side door. There’s a slam as he gets in, but Morse has the door open an instant later, Jakes charging in through the back. 

By the time Thursday gets there, the two of them are struggling with the porter on the cobbles. Thursday steps neatly around behind and kicks the man’s knee out from under him, allowing them to pile on top of them and putting an end to his resistance.

They handcuff him to the door while they get his victim – a university don – up and blinking dizzily. With Jakes keeping an eye on the dazed man, Thursday and Morse shine a torch through the back of the van. 

It’s empty, save for two odd things. The first is what looks like the handle for some kind of implement, made of bone. Thursday picks it up and examines both ends; neither show any apparent mark where anything could have been attached. But the moment Morse steps into the van, he shies away from it. “Be careful with that,” he says in a low tone; Thursday glances over at him, and realises to his shock that he’s afraid – badly afraid. 

“It’s just a piece of old handle,” says Thursday. Morse stares back with wide eyes, shaking his head.

“No,” he says, keeping well away. “It’s not. Keep it away from me.” 

The only other thing in the back of the truck is carefully wrapped up in sacking cloth; Thursday toes the cloth off with his foot, keeping away from it. As the heavy burlap falls away the inside of the van begins to fill with an eldritch blue glow, the colour of the heart of a flame. Thursday pushes the last fold of cloth away; nestled inside of it is a jar holding what would seem to be impossible – light without any source. A steady blue radiance.

Thursday turns to look at Morse, standing behind him, and as he does so sees his shadow cast by the eerie blue light. In his hand is not just the stub of the bone handle, but stretching out from it the shadow of a sickle. Thursday twists his hand; the sickle’s shadow twists with the movement. 

“Is that…?”

“What’s there. For those with something to lose,” says Morse. He steps into the van, moving carefully around Thursday, and starts tenderly re-wrapping the jar. Thursday leaves him after a moment; takes the bone-hafted sickle and goes to help Jakes move McCormack to the Jag. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

They spend most of the night interviewing the recalcitrant McCormack in turns, digging up what they can on him from the file room and trying to puzzle out the connections with the other victims in between. 

The break comes early in the next morning, just after Thursday’s sent Morse to take the jar to Porter to see if there’s any hope of returning what was stolen. A call comes through from County: McCormack’s wife went missing 15 years ago, never found. In the man’s wallet is a picture of her, so worn it’s soft and crossed with a web of creases. Thursday can’t imagine handing it to Morse.

He and Jakes go back into the interview room, disguising their exhaustion by dint of practice. Jakes stands behind McCormack, smoking; Thursday takes a seat and puts the photograph down on the table.

“Tell us about Dorothy,” he says, and sees the flash of anger in McCormack’s eyes. The man says nothing. “Went missing 15 years back, according to the files. We reckon maybe you know better. Maybe you know where she’s lying, maybe all these years of guilt and regret’s been eating away like acid at your innards, maybe you thought you’d try to put right that mistake – everyone knows they’re not worth as much, what’s the bother?”

There’s a moment of stillness, just the sound of Jakes exhaling a breath of smoke. Then, without any warning, McCormack leaps across the table towards Thursday’s neck. Jakes comes down on him with his full weight, slamming the man’s face into the table. 

“She was taken from me, and you miserable sods didn’t lift a goddamn _finger_ to find her. I’d’ve cut my hand off before I raised it to her. A day, a week, a fortnight went by, and all you’d say was ‘she probably had her reasons, no evidence of foul play.’ She’d never’ve run off – never. She’d been in her house while it was bombed to pieces in the Blitz; she was frightened of going to the city on her own; couldn’t stand me to go away overnight. But no – ‘Women have their secrets, sir,’” he spits, brutally, twisting against Jakes’ grip. Thursday signals the sergeant and Jakes pulls him up. 

“I’ll never know who took her, what they did to her before – before.” He stares straight at Thursday, face nearly puce, the tendons in his neck like taut wire. “I’ve lived with that every day for the last fifteen years, watching while the rest of the world moved on around me. Finally one day I realised it never would for me – not ‘til I knew. Not ‘til I did your jobs for you – found who took my Dorothy and did to him a hundred worse what he did to her.” 

“Where did you get this, McCormack?” asks Thursday, producing the bone-handled sickle. The porter stares at it for a long time, before shrugging.

“I went to the Wychwood.” He says it as though it were no different than going to the high street. 

Behind him, Jakes’ eyes widen, cigarette nearly falling from his mouth. Thursday’s jaw tenses. “You saw the Necromancer,” Thursday says, tone dripping with disbelief. McCormack ignores him.

“I asked him how to find Dorothy, and whoever had taken her from me. And he told me that would take a seer. Might as well’ve said hen’s teeth; no one finds them, if there are any left. But he said, there are ways and means of finding seers: if one doesn’t exist, they can be made. Only needed three empaths, and a fourth to be the seer. Didn’t know it would harm them,” he adds. Nehind him, Jakes has put out his cigarette and is staring stiffly at the back of McCormack’s neck, expression closed. 

“You didn’t stop when you found out, either,” says Thursday, flatly. 

McCormack stares back, unrepentant. “Our parents fought in the Great War. We fought in the last – I spent two years on bombing raids, and another two as a POW. Not a single one of them has ever given anything.”

Thursday doesn’t let himself think of the musty, green-tinted room and the dirty teddy-bear; shuts that thought right down. “How did you find them? Sara Fletcher through your work –”

McCormack looks bored. “I’ve been a porter, assistant and head, for near-on twenty years. I can pick out all the clandestine societies and clubs in Oxford by their hours, no matter how they skulk and scurry about; it was no trouble finding out who was attending the sun-touched do. All you need is one; they all know another.”

“They don’t share their secrets,” says Thursday. McCormack tries to hold Thursday’s eyes, but like a compass needle pulled to a magnet his gaze flickers to the sickle. Thursday feels his heart give a painful lurch, remembering Morse’s words: _He knew. He knew what was going to happen._ “You told them. You told them what you were going to do, and offered them a way out if they gave you what you wanted: a name. _And then you did it anyway._ ” 

Thursday sits with his fists clenched so tightly he can feel his nails slicing into his palms, watching for one excuse – a smile, a sneer, a single tick – that would give him the slightest reason to deck the man. But McCormack isn’t proud, isn’t rejoicing. 

He just doesn’t care. 

The moment passes. Thursday stands, pushes his chair back neatly under the table, and walks out. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

He’s running down the stairs into the motor pool just as Morse is coming in; they take one look at each other’s worn faces and read the whole story there. Morse turns around and follows him out; he doesn’t surrender the keys to the lad, instead climbs in behind the wheel and pulls out as soon as Morse is in. 

“Porter says there’s nothing to be done,” says Morse, after nearly a minute. “McCormack’s pooled all the magic; there’s no way to separate it. And even if Porter could, it’s unlikely returning it would heal the damage that’s already been done.”

Thursday keeps his eyes on the road, hands gripping the wheel tightly. “McCormack was going to use it to make a seer, to find his missing wife. He went to the Necromancer.” Who knew _just_ what to do.

Morse stares at him in silence for a moment before turning away, leaning against the door and rubbing tiredly at his face. 

They drive in silence, Morse not asking about their destination; either he’s guessed or he doesn’t care – Thursday honestly doesn’t know which. Eventually, the inspector looks over to find Morse has nodded off. It’s hardly surprising; they’ve been up for nearly 36 hours now. Like a cat, the lad can sleep anywhere – and like a cat, he does so without any apparent concern for his spine. He’s half slumped backwards over the seat, head tilted back at an angle that makes Thursday’s neck ache just looking at it. 

As they travel north-west out of Oxford the scenery changes dramatically over a short distance. Rolling green fields harbouring flocks of sheep and small herds of cattle shift to newly-tilled soil ready for planting with rich crops – carrots, corn, lettuce. Then a shift to less profitable crops, already in the earth – potatoes, beets, kale – and finally grain and hay. The houses dotting the landscape become smaller, bulkier dwellings with thick stone walls and iron fences, their small windows lined with iron rods. 

The outskirts of the Wychwood is uninhabited, the fields overgrown and abandoned, turning up only stones. The road becomes gravel and then simply stops a third of a mile from the forest’s edge, but a path has been worn into the grass – by what, Thursday doesn’t care to guess. He stops the car when he runs out of road, turns off the engine, and gets out. 

The Wychwood stretches across the horizon in a dark, oppressive curtain that runs away into the distance for a mile on either side. The trees are ancient and massive: twisting goliaths whose branches claw and grasp towards the sky as if trying to draw in the sunlight and blot it out. They are matted with lichen and hung with spiderous, tangled vines, their lines crooked and unclean. Although the sun is shining and it’s not yet noon Thursday can barely see more than a few yards into the wood, the gloom beneath the boughs thick as fog. 

He starts forward – walking slowly at first, then faster. There’s no sound from the surrounding fields around him or behind him, no birdsong, nothing moving through the grass. Only as he nears the eaves does he hear something: the slamming of a car door. 

The wood is not silent, is not still. The trees are creaking like old bones, branches swaying with breezes Thursday can’t feel. The vines and dark leaves weave backwards and forwards with a slow, menacing deliberateness. 

Thursday has never been this near it before. He bundles his fear up and sets it aside; keeps marching. He is marching now, with the same stride that carried him hundreds of miles across two war-town continents. Nearer, nearer, until the first gnarled branch is over his head, until he is in the shadow of the wood. It is cold, cold and dank, and he can almost feel the malice creeping over his skin. 

From behind him there’s the pounding of footsteps and then Morse hissing desperately, “Sir!” As the constable catches him up he grabs Thursday’s arm, takes it in a hard grip and stops him. “What are you doing?”

Thursday doesn’t turn. “What does it look like?”

“You can’t, sir,” pants Morse, unrelentingly. “Only the mad and the truly desperate have a place here, and you’re neither.” 

Thursday swivels to look at him, staring. “ _You_ are telling _me_ to let this be?”

Morse stares back, fiercely. “Yes. The only thing in here for you – for either of us – is death. I can’t – won’t allow that.”

His fear is beginning to seep back in, raising the hairs at the back of his neck. Morse turns to look past him into the dark, eyes wide. “We need to go now. Please, sir.”

Thursday looks to Morse; earnest, frightened, but holding Thursday back with iron determination.   
It would be easy enough to break free; the lad has no kind of training to violence, and Thursday could put him down in a minute. Except, of course, that he couldn’t – could never knock Morse down, especially not for protecting him. 

He takes a step back, feels Morse loosen his grip. “Alright. Let’s go.” 

They back out until they’re out of the shadow, until the sun is warming their backs and the chill of the forest has left them. Even then they walk half-turned to the Jag to keep the wood in their sights, not stopping until they’re safely within the car’s iron frame. 

Thursday sighs, pulling off his hat and resting his head against his hands over the wheel. 

“It was a good thought, sir.”

“It was a completely daft, thought, Morse. But…”

“Without fear or favour,” says Morse, quietly. Thursday glances over, and nods. 

“That’s how it should be, lad.” He sighs. “Let’s get out of this Godforsaken place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHO IS EXCITED FOR NOCTURNE?


	12. GHOST VARIATIONS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The apparent haunting of a school for girls leaves everyone involved to draw their own conclusions. When the stakes are raised, solving a murder becomes the key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mildly graphic description of young death.

Morse has his first inkling of how the next few weeks are going to play out when Eastoran carries up the tele and puts it on one of the file carts used by the clerks in front of the partition, fiddling around with the wiring and the aerials until he finds the network. A crowd of fellow reprobates is attracted, and the beginnings of the Sweepstakes and several weeks of arsing about is born. 

Morse, cursed by fate to have a perfect line of sight to the television and no way to block out the constant background chatter of the football announcers, tries to get his head down and keep working despite it; he might as well be sitting in a tube station. Fortunately with the football on, major crime in Oxford at least seems to have slow down. He does receive a letter from the county gaol which sends him on a long, unproductive hunt through the file room and evidence lock-up, the end result of which is turning to Jakes for help. 

The sergeant is filling in a report on one knee, eye on the tele. He glances up when Morse comes to stand at his shoulder, lowering his pen. 

“That photo McCormack had of his wife. Have you seen it?”

Jakes gives him a disbelieving look. “That was months ago. What’d I be doing with it? Use your brain; it’ll be in the case file.”

“It’s not. Nor with the rest of the evidence. The gaol wrote; he wants it.”

“Well what’s the problem? The little shite doesn’t get what he wants – I’m not going to lose sleep.” Jakes turns back to the screen. Morse blinks, then after a moment returns to his desk. Regardless of Jakes’ willingness to cooperate, there’s not much he can do – he’s already looked everywhere. The photograph’s vanished. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

As it turns out, his prediction of a reduction in violent crime was false. Morse is called out on Saturday afternoon to attend the scene of a murder at the Museum of Natural History; an old man has had his throat cut with an Indian blade.

Initial enquiries don’t lead to much; the most promising of the witnesses by sheer number is a girls’ school trip from Slepe; the museum attendant provides directions. Morse hitches a ride from Strange out to the wastelands of County territory, huge raindrops dashing themselves on the windshield.

Strange takes the opportunity to press him into a double date with some friend of his sweetheart’s; Morse, already hurrying out the car door, just accepts it. Easier than protesting. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

The Blythe Mount School for Girls is a manor house set several miles back from the village of Slepe down a narrow, oak-lined road. The grounds themselves are guarded by iron gates at least as sturdy as Cowley Station’s; Morse feels the security in the bars as he pushes past them to gain entry into the wide paved drive beyond. The school is set on a small lake, the landscape scenic and untouched. A cool breeze is blowing in over the water although the rain itself has stopped now; the long grasses at the water’s edge have been beaten down by it. 

The looming brick house is built the style of the early last century, impressive and austere. The interior has been maintained, at least on the main floor, in the same early-Victorian style; it has much more the feel of an ancestral home than a school. Now in the summer with only a few students and as he discovers two staff members, it feels empty, hollow. 

Despite the protests of the headmistress Miss Symes and the girls’ teacher Miss Danby, Morse is permitted to interview the girls individually. They’re an eclectic collection, these summer boarders at a public school for the rich – would-be socialites, club-goers, and scrappers. They all speak up well for themselves though, even the shy ones; clearly their education is good, whatever they’ll make of it in the future. 

Only one seems to have taken any note of the other visitors to the museum: Bunty Glossop, twelve. She describes an American couple, as well as Weiss. She’s succinct but, he thinks, accurate. Impressive.

He sees her again later when she comes in to bring him his coat as he’s thanking Miss Danby for the school’s cooperation. “Oh,” sighs Miss Danby, glancing out the window sadly, “Macintoshes in July.”

“The joys of an English summer. Such as it is,” says Morse, smiling. 

“As well to be prepared, I suppose. It looks as though it may rain again.”

Bunty intertwines her fingers, glancing out the window. “’It may – if it chooses. We’ve no objection. Contrariwise.’” 

Morse raises his eyebrows. Tweedledee? Clearly she at least is enjoying her learning. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Morse comes home to find Monica dropping off the end of a loaf and some cheese for him – “I’m not going to be here, so… Waste not want not,” she says, hurrying off before he can thank her properly. 

He’s working late, reading a book on ancient Indian weaponry and its significance in ceremonies and rites, when his pen runs out. It seems a small thing, but it leads to the discovery of a note in his pocket that hadn’t been there earlier in the day. It is printed with only two words. 

SAVE ME.

The paper is smeared with dread. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

Morse turns up the history of the blade from the museum’s summer attendant, Terence Black – part of a bequest left by a family with tea planting connections, the Blaise-Hamiltons. Black, a young man covering the summer shift to fill the coffers, doesn’t have much background on the museum’s collections and thus little more to offer. 

Thursday, when presented with the information, dredges up a vague memory of the name from his early years on the Force. Murder, he says, something out this way. 

Morse goes through their records, then gets on to County and finally the Yard. In the end, it takes a deep dig through _Jackson’s Oxford Journal_ to find the details of the case. Five murders committed at Shrive Hill House in July 1866, three of deaths children. Only one child survived; a daughter, Charlotte. An engraving of Shrive Hill House accompanies the article. 

Morse stares at the faded ink depicting the familiar, austere manor house. It is now Blythe Mount School for Girls. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Morse goes into work the next morning ready to fight for a closer investigation of the school on the admittedly flimsy connection between Blythe Mount School and the murder weapon; anything to have the chance to find out more about the note. 

Before he has the opportunity to press his case, he finds it’s already been made for him. A report has just come out over the teleprinter, a request from County for assistance. Bunty Glossop went missing from her room in the night, vanished without a trace. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

Thursday and Morse return together to the school to help with the search for the missing girl, Morse still with the note in his pocket. 

“Looks like the scene of a ripping Victorian murder, right enough,” mutters Thursday as they pull in, glancing up at the house. Morse is more concerned with the second car already parked nearby, and the two familiar figures waiting by the door. 

“This is DI Church, sir, and his bagman DS Bruce,” introduces Morse as they step over. “I was under Mr Church whilst on light duties at County.” He’s seen nothing of the man that leads him to believe Church due the respect of his title beyond required formalities. Church and Bruce, for their parts, give him the same looks he received every day in Witney: half-bored and half-dismissive. 

“DI Thursday. Fred,” returns Thursday with apparent affably. 

Inside, they speak with two of the girls – the head girl Petra and one of the youngest, Edwina. Both went after Bunty when they noticed her dormitory bed was empty. 

“Edwina woke up and noticed Bunty was missing from her bed. There was music playing,” says the eldest girl. The confident, assured would-be hostess of yesterday has disappeared; she is pale and drawn, her shoulders stooped and her eyes downcast. “A piano. Playing a Chopin nocturne. So we went to look for her.”

“You and Edwina,” says Thursday, softly. 

“Yes.” 

“You wouldn’t happen to know which nocturne, by any chance?” asks Morse, ignoring Church’s disparaging look. 

“Number 1 I think? B flat minor.” 

Morse nods. It’s not one of the more difficult nocturnes, but not one of the simplest, either. Certainly it would take a well-trained student. “Would anyone in the school be able to play the piano to such a standard?”

The girl considers it. “Of all the summer girls, only Shelly I suppose. And she was still in bed when we left.”

“And then?” continues Church, glancing quellingly at Morse. 

“Edwina left to find Miss Symes. I kept on towards the sound of the piano – it must have been coming from the music room. All the lights were out; it was nearly pitch black. As I came into the corridor, I realised that… there was something standing at the other end.”

“Someone, you mean,” says Thursday. “Bunty?”

She shakes her head, fisting her hand in the sleeve of her cardigan and biting her lip. Eyes on the table, she goes on slowly. “I’m not mad, and I’m not lying. It was a girl, all in white – like a Victorian child. Not Bunty. Not anyone here. All the rest of the girls were in their beds, and it couldn’t have been Miss Symes or Miss Danby. My blood went all to ice and I screamed and ran.”

She’s shaking now, hand over her mouth; Edwina presses her arm rather ineffectively. For the first time she looks up sharply, eyes red-rimmed and wild. “They’ll tell you there’s nothing here, that it’s all a silly game, that the house has been cleansed. But they’re wrong. We all know it. There’s something here in the school, roaming the halls at night. It took Bunty, and it won’t stop there.”

Thursday leans forward. “Please Petra, listen to me. We’ll look into every angle, but no one would ever allow a school to be opened if it had any suggestion of a taint in it. You’re safe here, and wherever Bunty is she will be found and returned.” 

The girl just shakes her head, white fingers still clenched in her cardigan. Morse leaves Thursday and Church to carry on with their interviews, and steps out to speak with Miss Symes. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

“Are you familiar with the history of this place?” he asks the headmistress as they walk through the wide downstairs corridor – the one Petra took last night when she saw her spectre. The walls are lined with the ancestral portraits of the Blaise-Hamiltons, the past still lingering in this mausoleum of a school. 

Miss Symes smiles gently. “Oh, every house has its secrets.” She’s walking slowly with the aid of a cane, one arm in a sling; souvenirs of a recent automobile accident. 

“Do the girls know what happened here?” 

“Fragments, perhaps.” She looks at him enquiringly, stopping opposite the music room. 

“I mean the Blaise-Hamilton case,” he specifies, glancing through the doorway at the piano. Nothing seems amiss. 

She inclines her head. “Ah. The legend is as old as the school, handed down from one generation to the next. I knew it in my time; the girls have no doubt learnt it in theirs.”

“Learned what exactly?”

“How Bloody Charlotte roams the halls in the dead of night, looking for those girls foolish enough to wander alone after lights out. Here comes a candle to light you to bed.” She turns, looking up around her at her school. “There have always been fears of a revenant here, constable – ever since the murders were committed in the 1800s. The house has been cleansed and completely exorcised more times than I can document. Certainly at least three times since becoming a school. Every few generations hysteria works itself up to such a fever pitch that there’s simply no other way to calm it, despite all reassurances to the students, staff and parents that the building cannot possibly be haunted. The children tell themselves these stories, and they come to believe them so much they create the fear they hold to be the warning of the revenant – when really it’s nothing but their own imaginations. Do you understand?”

Morse nods. “I think I can.” Certainly he feels nothing untoward here, despite the obvious concern of the students. “And what Petra Briers heard and saw?”

Miss Symes gives a little shrug. “Girls can be very fanciful, and occasionally, very naughty. I don’t have an explanation yet, but I don’t believe there is anything malevolent at the bottom of this.”

\------------------------------------------------------

Morse has the girls write out SAVE ME to test against the note; none of their handwriting is a match. Miss Danby takes him up to the dormitories to check it against Bunty’s – again, no match. 

In the girls’ room he finds pictures of Bunty with another girl – Maude Ashington, according to Miss Danby, currently on vacation in the Peloponnese. There’s also a copy of an account of the Shrive Hill murders by the bed of another one of the girls. 

“Did Bunty strike you as the sort of girl who might just run away?” he asks, flipping through the book. It’s an old copy, and many of the passages have been underlined in pencil – particularly the chapter describing the events of the murders.

Miss Danby frowns. “She was unhappy. Missing Maude, I think – her protector. Some of the older girls can rag on the younger ones. Who can say.” 

He pockets the book. “Young girls don’t just disappear into thin air, Miss Danby. If she’s not here it’s because she chose not to be. Or because somebody took her. There’s no other explanation.”

There’s a moment of silence and he looks over to find Miss Danby staring at him coldly, her arms crossed over her stomach. “You can say that; of course you can. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”

He realises as she stares at him, the defiance in her eyes twisting to fear, that Petra Briers is wrong. Not all the staff disbelieve her claims. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Miss Danby takes him up to the stairs leading into the attic of the house. “This part of the house is out of bounds – it isn’t safe; dry rot. I was afraid, some of the older girls – in case they were using it as a smoking den.” She stops at the landing of the final set of stairs, hand clamped tightly on the bannister. She’s breathing quickly, eyes wide and darting. “I’m sorry – I can’t. _I can’t._ Can’t you – can’t you feel it? Miss Symes won’t listen, says there’s nothing. _But it’s there._ It was as real to me then as you are now.”

He stares at her, trying to suppress his incredulity. “Miss Danby – maybe you should go downstairs.” He starts up, and she reaches out and grabs his arm in a tight grip.

“Please. Don’t. Don’t go up there.”

He tries to smile reassuringly. “It’s alright. Really.” He turns and mounts the stairs, hearing the tapping of her heels behind him as she hurries down again. 

The top floor of the old house is, as Miss Danby had implied, in a state of disrepair. It has clearly been boarded off for years, and from the looks of it wasn’t renovated when the house became a school. The windows are boarded up with crooked crate boards, light seeping through layers of cobwebs and dust. The sills are lined with leaves and the desiccated corpses of insects long dead, the floor laid with a carpet of grime.

The floorboards groan under his weight, each step announcing his presence. He wades deeper into this untouched remnant of the past, moths fluttering up as he brushes past a sheeted piece of furniture. 

There are still old belongings from the Blaise-Hamiltons – another family portrait, boxed-up toys, books, a dresser still holding a hand mirror and brush inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a family bible. He slips the bible into his other coat pocket; its weight evens out that of the Shrive Hill murders thriller. 

Morse passes through a doorway into a long, dark corridor. He hears something flutter behind him and turns to look. 

When he turns around again, a small figure dressed in a white frock is standing in the shadows at the end of the hallway. Morse frowns, stepping forward. As he does so the figure raises her head. There’s a crocket mallet in her hand and a bloody handprint on her dress. A prickle of fear runs down his spine, raising the hairs at the back of his neck. Still though he feels nothing – no hint of the knife-skittering-over-glass sensation that blood-touched raise in him. 

He quickens his step, and the floor gives way beneath him.

Morse doesn’t actually realise the floor has collapsed – what in fact he notices is a brief whirlwind of sensation: a burst of pain in his back, dust in his face, and the rough landing on the floor below. He collapses in a heap of wood fragments, groaning; the sensation of falling is so brief that it’s only then that he really pieces together the fact that he’s fallen through the floor. He rolls instinctively onto his side, checking his hip for injury. 

“You alright? Let’s get you out of here.” 

Morse looks up through the settling cloud of debris to find Thursday standing over him, pulling him up. He’s too stunned to think anything of the inspector’s presence, he just lets himself be helped up onto his knees and then, like a stumbling colt, to his feet. His right knee is a bit tender and his back aches like hell, but there doesn’t seem to be anything seriously wrong with him. 

He’s come down in Miss Danby’s office, he realises as Thursday guides him over to the sofa past the shocked Miss Danby and Church, explaining the presence of the two DIs. He’s limping, leaning on Thursday as he favours his hip; it doesn’t hurt, he just can’t seem to help it. 

Miss Danby gives him a concerned look and hurries out to fetch him some water; Thursday and Church hover over him. 

“What the hell just happened there?” asks Thursday. Over his shoulder Morse can see the large hole in the ceiling; metal support beams glint dully around the rough edges – he only just missed them in his fall. 

“Dry rot,” says Morse vaguely, pulling out his handkerchief and cleaning his hands and face. He finishes and glances up at Thursday. “I saw the child. The same one Petra Briers saw, probably. And, I suspect, Miss Danby.”

Both Thursday and Church freeze. Thursday is the first to react, looking down at him very slowly. “You saw a child in the attic?”

Morse nods, tenderly checking his head for any sore points. “In Victorian clothes, carrying a crocket mallet,” he reports, matter-of-factly. 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” exclaims Church.

Morse looks up, hands stilling, to see both men staring at him. Thursday’s face is carefully blank but the effort of holding that neutrality shows in the tightness at the corners of his eyes; Church looks appalled. 

“The place really is haunted,” continues Church, moving further away from the hole in the ceiling. 

“It wasn’t a revenant,” says Morse, sitting up and lowering his hands, irritated. “It was a child.”

“Bunty Glossop?” asks Thursday. 

“She was too small for Bunty, sir. I couldn’t see her face.”

“Maybe she _didn’t have one_ ,” spits Church. “This is no time to be messing about; there’ve been three confirmed sightings of this thing now. Half of County knows this place’s reputation – you saw the headmistress: one brick short of a load. You want to trust her with these children’s lives?”

“The Board of Governors evidently does,” replies Morse. Thursday gives him a repressive look. 

“We need to fetch in the priests. Now; today.” He strides out, passing Miss Danby at speed and nearly making her spill the glass of water in her hand. 

“The school isn’t haunted, sir,” says Morse, quietly, while the teacher is still staring after the County DI. 

“Best to be on the safe side all the same. ‘Sides, the girls will sleep easier.” 

\---------------------------------------------------

Thursday drops him at his flat to have a wash and change his clothes; the pain is almost worth the extra half hour of not having to be in the office listening to the football. 

He’s only just gotten in and stripped off his stained shirt and vest when there’s a soft knock on the door. Frowning, he steps over to answer it and finds Monica standing there. “I’m sorry – I was just leaving and I heard you come in. It’s hardly gone two; I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” Her eyes drop to his chest and then skim quickly away. “I’m intruding, I’ll –” 

“It’s alright.” He turns and hears a soft intake of breath as she catches sight of his back. She steps in after him. 

“Don’t spare yourself, do you? This will need darning,” she murmurs, picking his coat up off the chair where he threw it down and looking at the torn, bloodied lining. 

“Burning, more like.”

She smiles softly. “You’re being paid too much.”

He snorts. “Hardly.” He’s already fetched down the rubbing alcohol and a pad of gauze, left-overs from his leg wound. She steps over and takes them from him before he has a chance to soak the pad. 

“Let me.” She turns him round, gentle but determined. “This is going to sting a bit.”

It does, but not so much more than having his back torn open by rotting floorboards. He stares out the kitchen window at the wet afternoon, wishing he hadn’t stood so squarely in front of the glass as to block out her reflection. “I’ve been meaning to say thank you – for the meals and things.” 

“I told you – you need feeding up.” Just the barest edges of her fingers brush against his back as she dabs the astringent on; her heart is all kindness and compassion. And, temptingly, romance. 

“To that end, would you … want to have dinner with me?” He glances over his shoulder to catch her reply. 

She smiles. “Sure.”

“Tomorrow?” he asks, hopefully, turning back. He’s pushing his luck, but as she lays her warm hand on his back he knows he has nothing to worry about. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Morse returns to the nick to find the television off – possibly someone has finally put their foot down; more likely there’s no match on and they’ve exhausted the commentary. He doesn’t have the chance to get started on his work, though; the moment he sits down Jakes appears to stand appraisingly on the other side of his desk, cigarette between his lips. He looks Morse over as if expecting to see something other than what’s there. Morse raises his eyebrows questioningly. 

“I’ve got a mate down at County who says you saw something,” Jakes says, blowing a narrow stream of smoke.

Morse suppresses a sigh. No one gossips like coppers, especially coppers like Jakes who have a finger in all available pies. “A young girl in Victorian clothes,” he confirms, flatly.

Jakes’ lip curls. “They ought to shut the place down, all those kids locked up in there with something like that. ‘S criminal.”

“I don’t think it’s haunted,” says Morse, trying to reign in his impatience with limited success. Jakes raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah? You form that opinion before or after you fell on your nut?”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

A visit to the writer of the Shrive Hill House murders that evening produces more information on the murder case – and the Bloody Charlotte mythos – but little that seems applicable to the here and now. 

The next day, Morse returns to Weiss’ study to rouse out whatever he was working on prior to his death. He spends the afternoon going over it – a heraldic crest in progress, a folder containing genealogical information, and what seems like the Blaise-Hamiltons’ household ledgers and documents, oddly – and is just considering going home to get ready for Monica when Strange comes by his desk, wearing a suit. 

“You’re not planning on going like that,” he says, looking down at Morse’s worst suit and unstarched shirt – his second best is covered in dry rot and his best is at home, waiting for tonight. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten,” Strange continues, and the horrible memory of his vague promise to act as partner for Strange’s date’s friend heaves itself from the confused depths of his mind. He stares up at Strange, horrified, willing an excuse to be provided – some other candidate to be offered, an out to be given owing to his recent long hours. “I’ll be in the car,” says Strange, and leaves. 

He rings Monica up at work and begs off, claiming work, then reluctantly drags himself downstairs. 

They sit together at the pub, Strange whinging about being here in the first place while the football is on – Morse has a deficit of sympathy – while waiting for the women to show up. 

Things, however, go from bad to worse when they do: Strange’s date walks through the door with her friend, Joan Thursday.

But they go from worse to disastrous when, after half an hour of awkward small-talk, Monica walks into the pub. Morse sits at his table, staring dumbly at her like a rabbit on the motorway as she moves towards the bar with a group of women. As she goes she glances around – he’s still staring, struck motionless by the horror of it all – and meets his eyes. Her face falls, and then she’s hurrying out even as he stands; she’s gone before he can get out from behind the table. 

It’s unfair to Joan, but he limps through the rest of the night on autopilot. His thoughts keep turning back to the evening he wanted to spend, and the friendship he may just have ruined.

\--------------------------------------------------------

The next morning he asks Thursday for permission to return to Blythe Mount. 

“What’s this about? Proving something to County?” asks Thursday.

Morse frowns, genuinely taken aback. “County? No. I just think the cases are connected.”

“Morse, they exorcised that entire boneyard of a school yesterday. If there was something there –”

“If there was, then it’s gone,” concedes Morse. “But why would it kill Weiss? And how – he was miles away. Unless one of the children were taken by it – and they were all accounted for during the murder.”

Thursday sighs. “Then what? You don’t believe there’s a revenant – what are you afraid of?”

Morse stares back at Thursday, feels the cold chill of dread that suffused the note spreading through him. SAVE ME. He struggles to put his fears into words, put a frame around the knot in the pit of his stomach. “Today’s the centenary of the murders. I thought… if anything’s going to happen… it may not be blood touched, but there’s something malign going on out there. If we don’t stop it…” 

Thursday looks doubtful, but eventually nods. “Mind your p’s and q’s with County. They won’t be pleased to see you.”

Morse twitches the corner of his mouth. Likewise.

\----------------------------------------------------------

He arrives at the school to find the gates guarded by two County PCs, with a small pack of journalists waiting just outside. 

Another girl, Edwina Parrish, has gone missing. She was last seen in the middle of the night by Miss Danby, who was drawn to the music room by the Chopin nocturne. The child was accompanied by a girl in Victorian clothes. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

Another round of searching and interviews produces no results, and the school and its grounds have already been cleansed of malignancy. There’s nothing left but the same two possibilities: the girls left, or someone took them.

To prevent further nocturnal disappearances, County sets up a night watch and locks both the student and the staff in their rooms. Morse, not reassured, stays on into the evening with the first shift: DI Church.

The watch post is the music room; with the lights on and the door thrown open hopefully whatever part it seems to play in this bizarre ritual can be thwarted. Church stays on his feet pacing about the crowded space, arms crossed tightly. His gaze jumps from the piano to the door to the ceiling – and the dormitory above them – and then back in an anxious, relentless triangle.

“There’s nothing here,” says Morse, studying the sheet music on a stand beside a viola. 

“Why’re you so sure, then? Thought you’d be the last one to throw out the occult, with all your convoluted theories.” 

Morse straightens. “Because if there _were_ a revenant in the attic, that would mean it was almost directly above you when I fell through the ceiling. But you didn’t start feeling afraid until after I told you what I saw. Correct?”

Church gives him a cagey look. “Maybe, but –”

He’s interrupted by a knock at the door. Morse goes to answer it. 

It turns out to be Fitzowen, the Shrive Hill House book’s author, here to take photographs and audio recordings of the school at night as supportive material for a potential new edition of his book. He has the support of the Board; Morse stays with him while Church leaves to take a look around. 

They’ve just started upstairs, Fitzowen with a microphone and camera, when Thursday comes bursting through the doors. He’s half-livid. “I thought this place was supposed to be locked up tight. The front door was left wide open!” 

As he’s speaking, there’s an electric crackle and the lights go out. 

Thursday produces a torch from his pocket and heads immediately into the darkness, presumably after the fuse box. 

“There,” cries Fitzowen, camera flashing, pointing at something in the near-total blackness of the hall. He takes off in a different direction, camera bulb flashing again. They go after him, but at the first juncture Thursday goes one way and Fitzowen, peering through his camera, goes another. Morse starts to follow Fitzowen but hears a footstep behind him and, turning, sees something white moving in the shadows. He follows it. 

His path leads him back towards the main entryway and the music room. Upstairs from afar he sees a faint flashing like distant lightning – Fitzowen’s camera, coming down the hall in a different direction. 

As he enters the main hallway under the staircase he feels a chill. It grows rapidly, intensity ripping upwards to a sensation like needles scraping across a mirror only the mirror is his spine and he’s shuddering, stomach clenching violently, and – 

It stops, abruptly. At the same time, something heavy falls from the balcony above. He feels the movement of air against his face as it sweeps by him, and then the wet thump that doesn’t quite cover the sound of bone breaking. Not something. Someone. 

A child’s body is lying at his feet. For an instant he stares down at it, breath trapped in his lungs. Then he forces it out, frantic, voice nearly breaking. “I need help, in here! Now!” 

He stands unmoving beside the body like a sundial marking the moment, suspended by his horror. Thursday arrives and falls to his knees immediately, reaching for a pulse. “Get an ambulance, now,” he orders, harshly; at the same moment the lights come on. Someone’s thrown the breaker.

A scream from behind him sends Morse’s heart back into his mouth. He swivels to see a second child in the doorway; Edwina Parrish. He looks back slowly at the girl lying motionless on the floor; blood is pooling beneath her neck. “Bunty?” 

“No,” says a tearful voice from the top of the stairs. A third girl is standing there, dressed in the same Victorian outfit as the other two. She pulls off her mob cap to reveal herself as the girl who so impressed him on his first day here: Bunty, the first to go missing. 

“Get down from there,” he snaps, starting forward. “Now.”

“Morse,” warns Thursday from behind him, shocked. He ignores the inspector. When Bunty comes down off the stairs he takes her by the wrist – _terror / guilt / grief / shock_ – and pulls her out into the hall past the body on the floor to stand by Edwina. 

“Stay here.” A moment ago, there was something blood-touched at the head of those stairs. And whatever it was threw a child over the bannister. He runs up, still ignoring Thursday’s shouts, and meets Fitzowen standing, dazed, in the hallway. 

“There – the girl. She was floating,” he says, dumbly, holding his camera in both hands. He shakes his head and looks at Morse. “Is she…?” 

“Go downstairs and call an ambulance,” orders Morse, grabbing his wrist as well as he pushes him – _fear / worry / shock_. Like Bunty, no trace of malignancy. 

Morse pushes him towards the stairs and then hurries down the empty corridor. He runs all the way through the first and second floors, then up into the attic; nothing. 

By the time he gets back downstairs, Thursday has sent the children away with the headmistress and Church has reappeared, along with the local ambulance attendants. 

There’s nothing they can do. The girl, Maude Ashington, is dead. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Questioning produces only very scant answers. The girls were playing a prank on their fellow summer students as retribution for some bullying. Miss Symes, although helpless to produce a reason she or the girls might be the target of an attack, does remember now that she was contacted by Weiss regarding her car accident – he died before he could meet her. 

A deep state of grief and anguish has descended over the school; even the officers and coroner’s men coming in to deal with the case are part of it, feeding it like a fire. Morse tucks his hands under his arms and slouches away against walls, trying to isolate himself from it. He stops giving or taking forms, stops greeting people, stops signing off on chitties. Just stops. 

As soon as the interviews are over he escapes into the cool morning air outside. A thick mist has settled over the grounds, hiding the lake from view; the pre-dawn light is painting it in soft coral tones. It looks beautiful, serene. He feels like throwing something through it, like pelting it with stones, anything to tear away this ridiculous illusion of peace and harmony. 

DeBryn’s arrival, heralded by the crunching of gravel, provides a distraction if not a pleasant one. The pathologist is cloaked in quiet, damped-down rage, and only stays a minute before fading away to the unimaginably awful task of the autopsy. Morse considers going back inside but finds he can’t face it. He takes a seat on the stone railing of the stairs leading down to the lake and watches the sunrise fill the mist with rainbows before it starts to burn it off. 

“Morse?” 

He turns slowly and watches Thursday cross over from the school. He has Morse’s coat over his arm, his own coat and hat already donned. “Time to get going; we can pick up something to eat in town and then get back to the nick – Bright’s setting up an inter-force briefing for eight.” 

Morse doesn’t move. “I was wrong,” he says. The words sound very empty to his ears; how could they not? He ran about so cock-sure, so confident, poking holes in the credulity of others – and now a child is dead. 

Thursday stops beside him, giving him an assessing look. “About what?”

“The child was killed by something blood-touched, sir.”

Thursday’s face freezes, his form going very still. “What?” he asks, voice dropping to the bottom of his register.

“I only felt it for a few moments as I came into the hall below the stairs. It disappeared the moment she was dropped,” explains Morse, twisting his fingers in his sleeve. Just like the head girl had done. He stills his hands forcibly, holds them unmoving on his knees. 

“Why on _earth_ didn’t you say anything about this before? _Hours_ before?” demands Thursday roughly, stepping forward. For an instant he thinks Thursday is going to grab him by the collar; he stares up, shocked, into Thursday’s face. 

“It was already gone, sir. I went up looking for it right after and there was nothing there. It had already gone – left as soon as it killed Maude.”

“You went up looking for it,” repeats Thursday, in a flat, incredulous tone. “You went _looking_ for something blood-touched that had just killed.”

“I knew it wouldn’t be there; it had already disappeared.” repeats Morse, “And anyway if it had been I would have felt it long before I came across it.” Thursday starts to protest and Morse straightens, setting his jaw. “It’s not hubris, sir, and it’s not pig-headedness. It’s just my nature. Sun-touched are good at sensing blood-touched: we’re not misled by fear, and we’re not fooled by tricks.”

“So what do you suggest? Something’s been waiting here all this time?”

“No, sir. I think someone brought it here; the same person who was in the museum, with Weiss. Blood-touched can by crafty, but they aren’t intelligent, and they don’t get about. I think someone’s been taken by a revenant; they might not even know it. It’s using them to kill – Weiss in the museum, and Maude Ashington last night. And when it’s done it slips back into its slumber and whoever it is continues about as before, possibly unaware they’ve been murdering people.”

“The bloody razor would probably be a clue,” growls Thursday.

Morse shrugs, trying to suppress his frustration. “It’s just a theory, sir. But it explains how it could have gotten from the museum to here, and how it disappeared, and how it evaded the exorcism.”

“And why you didn’t come forward?”

“Yes,” says Morse, tiredly. “Because it _is_ gone. And if I had said something, everyone there would have panicked. You nearly panicked.” He stands, slipping his hands into his pockets, exhausted and run down. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll stay here in case it comes back. I don’t know what else –” his voice starts to waver and he snaps his jaw shut, looking away. The mist has all gone now, lake’s surface clear and smooth. 

Right now, all he wants is to leave this place and never come back. To go home and bury himself in scotch and guilt and not come out again until he’s stripped several layers off his throat. Some of his exhaustion, at least, must show in his face, because Thursday lets it go. 

“Alright, lad. That’s alright. Come on; let’s go,” says the inspector, in a softer tone. He puts a hand on Morse’s arm and nudges him in the direction of the car. 

He looks back at the house, then at Thursday. “She died right there in front of me,” he says, still trapped in the shock of it.

Thursday drapes his coat over his shoulders and leads him away. “I know, lad. I know.”

\---------------------------------------------------

They institute a joint investigation with County, the Oxford officers working the case in the day and County at night. Which means another 12 hours for them before a pause. Morse accepts the cup of black coffee that’s given to him by a passing PC, drinking it without even making a face. 

He returns to the school to speak with the girls again now that they’ve had a chance to collect themselves. The SAVE ME note, he discovers, was written by Maude and delivered by Bunty. Apparently the haunting wasn’t solely a game. 

There’s been a man seen at the school after dark. Frightened and without any other recourse, the girls took to the haunting to scare him off. Edwina identifies him; she saw him on the school trip kissing Miss Danby. The museum attendant Terrence Black. Morse questions Miss Danby, who confirms the relationship. 

Black’s story, according to Thursday and Jakes who interview him, is straightforward if not to his credit. He admits to being romantically engaged with Miss Danby, a liaison he’s sought to keep secret from the dragon of a headmistress. He was at the school the night Edwina performed her vanishing act and saw a man on the grounds, but didn’t come forward to protect Miss Danby’s reputation. 

The story at least explains his familiarity with the school and, to an extent the Blaise-Hamilton collection despite his status as a summer intern. 

\----------------------------------------------------

Morse spends the rest of the day at his desk going through Weiss’ papers. The television, thankfully, has been shut off, relieving him of having to do it himself. 

The answer must be here. Somehow, Weiss made a connection with whoever has been taken by the revenant – and that connection resulted in his death. 

The genealogical file is straightforward enough – an American couple searching for a grandchild born to a son lost in the war. He sets the aside. The other work is less clear. That Weiss was working on something regarding the Blaise-Hamiltons is apparent – there are records of wages paid out in India, a letter regarding travel arrangements for the son of a colleague killed at Cawnpore, and a duplicate of the 1861 census from the College of Arms. 

“Come on, then.” 

Morse looks up to find Thursday standing on the other side of his desk. His shoulders are slumped, face drawn and cragged. Somehow the day has passed by without Morse’s noticing it, the sky outside grown dark and the CID empty. And he still hasn’t found whatever it is that’s here in front of him.

“Just a few more hours.”

“It’s County that has nights, Morse,” says Thursday, exasperated. He doesn’t budge, turning a page in Mrs Blaise-Hamilton’s bible. Thursday sighs. “No later than ten, then.” The inspector fades away, moving almost silently towards his office t collect his hat and coat, and Morse goes back to his reading.

It’s only a minute later that everything comes together, like a breaker being thrown. It’s the phone ringing that does it. He remembers: the painting in the attic, a portrait of Samuel Blaise-Hamilton with his hand on his hip and on his finger a garnet-encrusted signet ring. And, in the museum, Terrence Black pointing out to him the school trip from Slepe, the same ring on his finger. The ring which would have passed from father to illegitimate son – Robert Pickstock, confirmed by the census and the bible – to great-great-great-grandson, confirmed by the coat of arms in development by Weiss. All the while with the slumbering malevolence of the original murderer of Shrive Hill House within. Slumbering, until Black woke it with dreams of reclaiming his inheritance. 

Morse picks up the phone. It’s Bunty, sounding terrified. 

The revenant is back.

\-------------------------------------------------------

“No risks,” says Thursday, as they roar down the last mile towards the school. “Find the girl and get her back to her room – we keep everyone there and cross the door with iron until the priest gets here. You come across it, you run. Understood?”

Morse nods once, neck very stiff. 

They park and run up the stone stairs to the front door to find it unlocked; inside, the lights are out. He tries the switch: dead. 

Morse feels the soft, prickling sensation of long nails drawing over the back of his neck and looks to Thursday. “It’s here.” Not very close; not yet.

Thursday opens his mouth to answer, and Church bursts through the inner door, face tense He draws up as he recognizes them. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Where are the children?” demands Morse, striding across the floor towards the inspector.

Church gives him an impatient look. “Up in their beds, I should think.”

Morse’s fists clench, his weight edging forwards instinctively. “You mean you haven’t checked?” 

“I only just got here. My man rang in sick.”

Jakes, Bright and Strange arrive at that instant, all with light chains of iron at their necks, Jakes and Strange both with pistols. Guns are rarely effective against revenants, but iron bullets can stop those taken by them. Jakes hurries down alone to the basement to look for the fuse box, torch in one hand and sidearm in the other. 

Bright sends Morse with Church to find Bunty while the DCS and Thursday go to gather the rest of the students and the staff together, Strange staying behind to guard the door and wait for the priest. 

“Now you believe in it?” asks Church as they hurry up the stairs, his voice very tense.

“Now it’s real,” grits out Morse. And they’re getting closer to it, despite Thursday’s warnings. He starts to put out a hand to stop Church, and is stopped by a girl screaming. 

The lights come on, making the mad dash through the corridors easier. They come racing around the corner at almost the same time as everyone else to find Bunty clawing desperately at Black. At the thing using Black like a puppet, a razor in its hand. 

Like all blood-touched, revenants fray the natural fabric of the world. Even those taking temporary hosts – and no body can hold them for long – can’t disguise the wrongness of their existence. Morse can’t make his eyes focus properly on Black; his form is slightly blurred, and although the lights have come back on there’s a thick shadow hanging about him that has an almost physical presence, its edges rippling like a torn flag as he moves. 

The men fall back several paces in near-unison, faces white and eyes terrified. “Black, let her go,” pleads Bright very weakly, to no effect.

“Robert – she’s not the one you want. She’s not the one you’re here for,” says Morse. Black’s head swivels around as if on greased rails, black soulless eyes staring across the hall directly at him. He’s holding the flailing Bunty with both her wrists caught in one hand, his arm straight and unshaking. In his other, he holds the cut-throat razor. 

For a moment, Morse thinks the thing is going to kill her here in front of him, that he is going to repeat yesterday, right now just as much this monster’s pawn as Black. 

Then from behind them comes a gunshot. Morse nearly drops, heart about to burst in his chest; the men scatter. Jakes has come up the stairs behind them. 

Morse turns back to Black as the sensation of knives being sharpened on his nerves fades, then disappears completely. “Black –”

The shadow, the wrongness to Black is gone. For an instant he meets Morse’s eyes with desperation in his face. Then he grabs the girl, razor to her throat, and runs down the only open corridor left: that leading to the stairs to the attic. 

The rest of the men are sorting out their haze of horror; Morse leaves them behind and ducks out the back way up the old servants’ stairs and through the entrance he took on his first trip to the attic. 

He finds Black in the corridor above Miss Danby’s office, trapped by the rotten floorboards. He turns to face Morse, Bunty in front of him with the blade at her throat. 

“We know about Robert, Black. We know you didn’t commit the murders. Just let her go and we can work it out – there’s a priest coming, everything can be alright.”

It can’t, of course. Black bought the revenant to and from Blaise Mount, and probably the museum as well, with a blade. His mind has already been warped by it, if indeed his intentions weren’t in alignment to begin with. 

Black’s eyes are wild as they swivel from Morse to Bunty to the broken floor behind him, his hand shaking badly now. He’s breathing hard; clearly being the revenant’s plaything has put him in a bad way. “Stand off – I’ll do it.”

Morse takes a breath, tries to put that possibility out of his head. The girl is staring pleadingly at him, desperate, terrified. “Bunty – look at me. He’s not going to hurt you.”

Black pulls the razor closer to her neck. “You sure of that?”

Any minute now, Robert could return. Or Black could simply continue down the path of murder forged by his great-great-grandfather. Morse looks to Bunty. Bunty, a prize student, a shoe-in for Lady Matilda’s, according to Miss Danby. Bunty, who quotes aptly from memory and is in love with Carroll.

“‘Beware the Jabberwock.’ What comes next?” he asks, tensing. She blinks, then moves, grabbing Black’s arm and biting fiercely. He cries out and she scrambles away; the next instant Morse is between them, pushing her away and fighting for the razor. He loses the battle and jumps back as Black swipes at him, blade whistling through the air. 

“Black –” 

“It should have been his. Should have been _mine_ ,” hisses Black, head low, teeth barred. Then he turns and, with a cry, tries to leap the broken floorboards. He lands on the other side and crashes straight through the rotten wood, coming down into the metal girder Morse barely missed in his own descent. Morse steps forward carefully and peers down: Black’s lying unmoving in a heap below, eyes open but lifeless. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

They evacuate the rest of the school while the priest deals with the ring, just to be safe. It takes a good three hours to cleanse Robert Pickstock’s grasp on it. 

When it’s all over he goes home for a few hours’ shut-eye, then heads back to the nick for the afternoon to do the mandatory paperwork. Thursday invites him over to watch the football final; he declines politely. 

Among Black’s things a packet of old photos, never circulated publically, have been discovered. He takes them home when he’s done to go through them, the wireless playing the game as a concession to the rest of the nation. 

For the first time, he sees the face of Bloody Charlotte, carefully effaced from every other photographic record. She’s giving a sweet, lop-sided grin in the direction of the camera, her young teeth full of gaps. She’s wearing the same outfit as the girls at Blythe Mount, a mob cap perched over her head. Just a young, innocent child. A child with the small chin, a shallow nose and slightly mis-focused eyes common in mental institutions. He looks at the photo for a long time, then tucks it away carefully in the package to return to Evidence. 

\------------------------------------------------------

It’s not until much later that anyone notices Black’s ring is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> The Ghost Variations (Geistervariationen) is the last work by Robert Schumann before he was committed to a mental institution; he claimed it was influenced by spirits during its creation.
> 
> Although rare today, until a shift in culture and medical practices in the 1980s, it was common practice to institutionalise individuals with Down's syndrome at birth for their entire lives, where conditions were frequently grim and where the life expectancy was often dramatically shorter than the average today. 
> 
> Next chapter will be completely alternate reality and will leapfrog SWAY, because I harbour a vendetta against it. It probably will be late as well, as I am going on holidays. But perhaps I shall return with some inspiration, since I will be stopping by Oxford.


	13. family ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse investigates a personal request, while trying to solidify a growing relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place a few weeks after the events of SWAY. For the sake of continuity, the only things that need carry forward from the episode are Morse and Monica's relationship, and Morse's work directly pertaining to the case.

Morse dreams honey-coloured dreams, slow-paced and pleasant. He wakes before the alarm in a nest of warmth to find himself blanketed in affection. Monica, snuggled in at his side, is already awake; she turns to give him a peck. “Breakfast?” she asks, making to get up.

He tugs her back down under the covers instead. They still have quarter of an hour. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

He can still feel the warmth of her touch on his skin an hour later as he pulls up in front of Thursday’s house, the Jag’s headlamps slicing long slivers of yellow light into the pre-dawn darkness. 

He gets out and walks up the path, bare hands in his pockets, doing his best to stifle his smile. Almost the instant that he rings the bell the door opens, revealing Sam Thursday’s tall silhouette in the backlit doorway. 

“Good morning,” says Morse, blinking. 

“Morning.” To his surprise, the young man produces a note and shoves it at him; Morse takes it. “Read it later,” he says in an undertone, and whips around back into the house. Staring curiously after him, Morse tucks the folded piece of paper into his pocket and follows. 

Thursday is just picking up his sandwiches from Win Thursday, neatly done up in brown paper as always. She gives Morse a smile before straightening her husband’s tie; he gives Morse a long-suffering look over her shoulder but stoops to let her kiss his cheek. “Take care of yourselves.”

“Right. On you go, Morse.” 

\---------------------------------------------------------

Things are quiet at the moment; no major cases on the burner and nothing of interest in overnight. His only real assignment at the moment is working on a paper for Bright about the potential amalgamation of five police nearby forces – including Oxford’s – to create a new territorial police force, a duty for which he has no taste. Once they arrive at the station Morse waits for Thursday to settle himself in his office before fishing out his son’s note. It’s short and to the point. _Can we talk? I’d like your help. Tonight after you drop Dad stop round the corner by the phone booth. - Sam_

Nothing too worrying on the note – anxiety and a little guilt, but certainly not enough to suggest malfeasance. And anyway, he can’t believe it of Thursday’s son. 

“Writing love notes?” asks Jakes as he swings by. 

Morse looks up, scowls, and tucks the note back into his pocket. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

Morse drops Thursday off at the usual time, the November night already closed in around them. He watches his superior disappear into his home before he pulls out, swinging around the corner as instructed and stopping to wait. As soon as he kills the engine the Jag begins to cool, frosty night air pressing in on the Jags thin glass and iron frame; he pulls his car coat tighter around him and digs his shoulder blades back into the leather seat. 

He’s only there a couple of minutes before he spots a tall, lanky frame in the mirror; Sam Thursday. The young man taps on the glass and then opens the door to slide in. He’s wearing a wool coat, knitted scarf and gloves, as if going some distance; Morse wonders what excuse he made. 

“Thanks for coming,” Sam says, sincerely. “You didn’t tell Dad, did you?”

“No.”

He nods. “Thanks,” he says again.

Unlike Joan, Morse has never had much interaction with Thursday’s son. He knows that the boy likes winding up his sister, and he certainly seems to have inherited the family stubbornness, but otherwise he seems pleasant and sensible enough. He’s finishing his last year of school now, planning to join up with the army once he’s old enough. 

“You said you needed help?” asks Morse, trying to sound straight forward. He’s been hoping all day that the boy hasn’t gotten a girl in trouble. Surely he wouldn’t turn to his father’s bagman with that. Thursday’s relationship with his children has always seemed rock solid; Morse can’t imagine them needing a third party to moderate.

Sam rubs his hands absently. “I have this mate who I think might be in some trouble. I’d’ve gone to Dad, only my friends all know Dad and – they like him and all, but they still see DI Thursday when they look at him. Anyway, he doesn’t really approve of this friend of mine; if I asked him for help…” 

“He might tell you to drop him?” asks Morse. Sam nods, quirking his lips upwards in a humourless smile.

“That’s about the size of it. That might help me, but not my mate.”

Morse runs a hand through his hair. “Why exactly does he need help from a police officer?” 

“He – his name is Paul … being at the centre of things has always been important to him. His parents broke up when he was young and he’s not very book smart, so school’s been hard, these last few years especially. He started skipping out on lessons a lot over the past year or so, fell in with a bad crowd and took to the sauce pretty regularly.”

“And that’s when his stock fell with Inspector Thursday?”

Sam cants his head to the side in agreement. “It did with most people; me too, if I’m honest. But I suppose – he’s struggling, and I can see that. He doesn’t know who he is or how to get what he wants, and playing rebel was just easy. But now…”

“Now?”

Sam props his hands against his knees, eyes serious. “I think he realised things were going to have to change – one way or another he would finish school, and then what? When we were little, all he wanted was to be included, to feel like one of the group. Now he wants more, wants to be respected.” Sam takes a breath, knocking his fists against his knees. “I think he’s been going to the packs to look for somewhere to belong, something everyone would respect. That’s how he would see it.”

Morse raises his eyebrows. _Choosing_ to be turned is something that even a decade ago only someone outcast by society would have fallen to, someone unable to survive alone without the support of the community. 

But now, at least in some parts of the country, things are beginning to change. With the advent of drugs to reduce the likelihood of contamination from the most contagious of the moon-touched, people who ten years ago were considered no better than monsters are becoming an active part of society: working, going to school, and forging trends in edgier pop-culture. Fear is giving way at the borders to curiosity.

However, just as moon-touched climb society’s ladder towards acceptance and legitimacy, the loosening of sigils and sermons has let in the packs. Almost every city has one, though. Despite the name they’re usually not all wolves, although generally most are. And not all their activities are illegal, although again, generally most are. But these days they are where the down-and-outs turn to for whatever their lives couldn’t give them. The packs provide family, food, and shelter. And in return, they expect the same as any criminal association: absolute loyalty and lifetime commitment. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

Sam shrugs. “Not completely, but it would appeal to him – he would see the benefits without all the consequences. He’s in with a different crowd now. He won’t tell any of us who it is or where he goes, but I know it’s somewhere in Cowley; I followed him that far one afternoon. And he used to wear a silver charm at his wrist; sometime in the past few weeks, he’s taken it off.”

Morse sighs, turning to face Sam. “Look: there’s not a lot I can do. I can talk to him, try to scare him off if he hasn’t joined up already. If he has, backing out of the pack’s nearly as dangerous as staying in it. Especially if he’s just been turned; he’ll need their help, at least for a while.”

Sam purses his lips but nods slowly. “If that’s it, then that’s it. I just can’t let him go without doing anything, but he won’t listen to me.”

“You think he’ll listen to me?” asks Morse, mostly rhetorically. 

“Dad listens, and not too many people impress him. Paul… if you don’t try to bully him into it, he might. He has no reason to believe us when we tell him to watch himself, but you’ve seen what’s out there.” He says it matter-of-factly, as though he were intimately familiar with their cases. In fact, Morse knows that Thursday leaves his work at the front door, doesn’t share his day with his family. But he’s brought Morse home hurt or exhausted often enough to show the job doesn’t pull its punches. 

“Alright. I’d like to watch him a bit first, see if he’s already signed himself up. I’ll need to know what he looks like.”

Sam produces a photo from inside his coat. “It’s from last year, but he hasn’t changed much. That’s him on the end.” The photo shows five boys all jostling together in a rough line on a football pitch, Sam near the middle. The one on the far right, Paul, is of average height and build. Light, wavy hair and a broad open face. Easy enough to recognize. 

Morse takes it and tucks it away in his pocket. “Family name?”

“Degardier.” 

The school he already knows – the same as Sam’s. “Alright. I’ll let you know how I do.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.” He smiles politely and gets out, heading back around the corner towards his house. 

Morse sighs, starts the car, and heads back to the station to pull any priors on Paul Degardier. 

\--------------------------------------------------

It’s late when he gets home, evening whittled away in filing cabinets. The kid has no file; no priors and no formal cautions, and rang no bells with the duty officers. If he’s been in trouble in the past, it was obviously nothing serious. 

He puts on _Turandot_ , makes himself a couple of sandwiches and polishes them off in record time, not so much hungry as beginning to feel painfully empty. He’s just taking off his jacket and tie when there’s a soft, familiar knock at the door. He turns, smiling. “Come in.”

Monica steps in, glancing at the turntable. “I thought you might be in,” she says, flashing a toothy smile. 

“Just got back. I was having a bite. I can turn that off,” he adds, stepping over to the shelf where the turntable sits at the end of a row of LPs. 

She catches his hand. “Don’t. It’s fine. Verdi?”

“Puccini,” he says, taken aback. 

“I guess I have some studying to do.” 

He smiles softly, reaching behind her to turn the volume down. “You don’t have to,” he replies, earnestly.

“But you love it. And I find some of it very beautiful.” She runs her fingers over _Turandot_ ’s cover, a highly stylized painting of pagodas at the base of a waterfall. “What’s it about?” 

Morse sits down in the flat’s ancient, hideous easy chair, fortunately more comfortable than it is attractive. He glances up hopefully, and she seats herself with mock primness on his knees – he’s yet to find a second sitting chair. Her blouse is folded open to reveal smooth, dusky skin; the soft lamplight gathers in tallow-coloured pools in the curves of her collarbone. 

Morse settles himself, wrapping one arm around Monica’s shoulders. “It takes place in China, and it starts with an execution. The beautiful, icy-hearted princess Turandot is having a failed suitor put to death. She will marry any man who can answer her three riddles, but if he fails, she executes him before the court. We meet the hero, a deposed prince who keeps his name a secret to protect himself. He sees Turandot and at the sight of her beauty falls madly in love with her.” He takes her hand and presses a kiss against the tender inside of her wrist, feels her shift closer towards him. She’s all shimmering amusement, underlain with ardour and affection. Morse feels his pulse quicken, her contagious warmth making him ache for her. 

“He declares his intention, and she puts the three riddles to him in the courtyard one by one. He answers the first correctly, and the crowd is silent.” He kisses the knuckle of one finger. “He answers the second correctly, and the crowd applauds.” He kisses the knuckle of a second finger. “He answers the third riddle correctly, and the crowd cheers.” He kisses the knuckle of a third finger, looking up at Monica who is watching him with dark, eager eyes. “But the princess is wrathful and desperate. She pleads with her father to disallow the marriage. He refuses. The prince, taking pity on her, grants her a reprieve: if she can discover his name before dawn she can put him to death.” He kisses the fourth knuckle.

“She’s very cruel, this Turandot.”

“Yes. And afraid, perhaps. But although she and her subjects spend all night searching and go so far as to kill the prince’s most loyal servant, they cannot discover his name. Finally as time runs out, in an attempt to win Turandot’s heart, the prince kisses her. At his touch, she realises that she both hates and loves him, and asks him to leave. Instead, he gives her his name – Calaf – and his life. At dawn, she takes him to her father and announces to the court that she knows his name: love.” 

Monica cants her head slowly, considering. “So she saves his life.” 

He nods, turning her face upwards to kiss her. She puts a finger on his lips. Her touch is growing more intoxicating, the heady mix of her desire and attraction and amusement only whetting his hunger. “Are you trying to compare me to Turandot?” she asks, eyes glinting playfully. 

“Certainly not. She would have executed me long ago.”

“Are you secretly a deposed prince, then?”

Morse snorts softly. “No, nor that. But you may call me love, if you care to.”

Monica finally kisses him, drawing him in close, until his head spins with it. “I think I would,” she whispers. 

As she slides down to straddle his lap, fanning the sparks of his desire into flames, he realises that for the first time in a long time, he’s truly, deeply happy. 

And the moment he realises that is the moment the fear starts to pour in. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

With having to pick Thursday up just after eight, there’s no way he can get to the school before morning classes start. He does swing by, but as expected there’s no one in the schoolyard or the street outside. If Paul showed up to classes today, he’s already inside; if not, there’s no chance of finding him starting here. Nor likely his home; kids bent on finding trouble don’t hole up in their rooms. 

Morse tells Thursday he’s working off a tip from a local informant about some potential petty crimes – technically true – and heads down to the bottom end of Cowley to try to dig out some information.

He’s never worked any vice operations before, however, and without any more solid information to go on or a more experienced officer to provide advice, he soon finds himself driving aimlessly through the back streets past warehouses and factories without any way to move ahead short of knocking blindly on doors which is nothing other than a waste of time and police resources. 

Morse returns to the station, checks the Jag back in, and goes upstairs to call DeBryn. He needs to talk to him anyway.

\--------------------------------------------------

The autopsy suite is mercifully empty when he arrives, metal gurney sitting clean and unoccupied in the centre of the chemically-sanitized room. 

“Hello?”

“In my office,” comes DeBryn’s voice. Morse follows it through to the pathologist’s cramped administrative space. DeBryn’s behind his untidy desk, reading what looks like an academic journal. He looks up, saving his place with a pencil. “Morse. What can I do for you?”

Morse takes a seat. “You, and especially your colleagues here, must see a few cases who’ve gotten on the wrong side of the packs. Do you have any idea about where to find them?” he asks, without preamble. DeBryn doesn’t appreciate a fan dance, and he’s never been any good at that type of conversation anyway. 

DeBryn gives him a skeptical look. “Isn’t this what you have a Vice department for?”

“Theoretically yes, but –”

“But?” 

“But they’re all in DI Chard’s camp – he spent his first few years as DI there – and right now he’s got it in for me. My current investigation isn’t strictly on the record, so I’ve no way to require their help,” sums up Morse succinctly, giving him an even. DeBryn raises an eyebrow.

“And how did you offend the universally-beloved Chard?” the pathologist asks, dryly. 

“I nicked his files and proved he’d missed something in investigating his cases, then closed the cases for him.”

DeBryn rolls his eyes. “Yes, that would do it.”

“I wasn’t trying to show him up, just to do the job,” says Morse, tiredly.

DeBryn looks unconvinced. “The job, or his job? In any case, I can’t answer your question, but I can ask around. No promises.”

Morse nods. “Thanks.” He doesn’t get up, though, sits fidgeting with his cuff. The button’s starting to come loose; it’s cheaply made, like all his clothes. 

“There was something else?” asks DeBryn.

Morse pauses, licks his lips, then leans forwards. “There’s… this girl,” he begins, hesitantly. “I’ve known her for several months, and we’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now.”

“If this is about to become a request for an illegal prescription,” begins DeBryn, “I would suggest –”

Morse colours. “It’s not that. It’s…” he runs a hand over the back of his neck, trying to find the words. Everything he feels is so tangled up – or rather, he feels only one thing so keenly that it’s starting to scare him. Starting to create doubts and feed fears. “I’ve only known her for a brief time, and we don’t have very much in common. But _she makes me so happy_ ,” he finally spits out, embarrassed, staring at the desk rather than DeBryn. “When I’m with her, even when I’m not, things seem… brighter. I don’t care what we do, I just want to be with her as much as possible, even if we’re doing nothing, just to have her there.”

“I,” he looks up, to find DeBryn staring at him stony-faced, “it’s starting to scare me, how much I care for her. What if there’s something behind it – a witching circle, a – a –”

“Morse,” interrupts DeBryn, and Morse stutters off into silence. “I must say that it’s nice to see that even as apparently intelligent a man as yourself can occasionally be a complete goop. You’re not under some malevolent influence, you fool, you’re in love. If you were under a forced obsession you would hardly be able to breathe without thinking of her, never mind doing your job – and you certainly could never conceive of the notion that your feelings might not be true. You’re just young and giddy. Enjoy it. Spend time with the girl; go home early, go out to dinner, take her dancing.”

Morse stares at him, silent, and DeBryn softens a little. “Is it really so hard to believe you could simply be happy?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No, doctor. But in my limited personal experience, it rarely ends well.”

“How it ends is, I would think, in good measure is up to you,” says DeBryn. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Morse gets home at the usual time and heads for his door. Just before fitting the lock into the key, though, he pauses. DeBryn might not have been all wrong – dinner, at least, suddenly appeals. He heads down the hall and knocks on Monica’s door. 

“Come in.”

He enters to find her in uniform and hurriedly jamming items into her purse by the entranceway table. “They just called me in for the evening shift,” she says, giving him an apologetic glance. “I won’t be back ‘til gone midnight, so I’m afraid that does in this evening.” She replaces one compact with another apparently identical one. 

Morse feels his heart sink a little. “I could – I mean … could I stay here, tonight?” 

Monica glances up at him, face closed. “I’ll be too tired when I get back – I’ve been on every day this week, and –”

“Not to do anything,” he interrupts, hurriedly. “Just – to be here. To be with you. We’re both so busy that if we don’t go out of our way to make time for each other we’ll hardly see each other at all.”

She bites her lip but gives him a hesitant smile. “Alright.” She steps over to the sideboard and goes through the top drawer. “Here. I had it cut the other day. Thought I might need it.” She hands him a key. “Don’t lose it, will you? You know what the landlady’s like.”

He takes it from her – _excitement / affection / secrecy_. “I’ll take good care of it. And I’ll get you one.”

She gives him a wider smile and nods, pushes her keys and wallet into her purse, then heads for the door. She stops at the threshold to give him a kiss that leaves him a little breathless, and then she’s gone. 

\------------------------------------------------------

Morse wakes up sometime in the middle of the night from a strange dream of broken glass and grey stone to the soft sounds of someone in his flat. His heart drives a pint of ice-water through his veins before he remembers that this isn’t his bed, isn’t his flat, and the person treading softly in the other room is in fact the flat’s rightful owner. He drops back onto the pillow, fear forgotten quick as a dream, and is mostly asleep by the time Monica comes into the bedroom to change. 

She’s warm and damp when she gets into bed, smelling of the spiced creams she uses to hide the more abrasive soaps she uses when she comes off-shift. He tries to ask her how her night was, but it just comes out as a garbled moan. 

“Go to sleep, love,” she murmurs, running a hand through his hair. He closes his eyes and drapes an arm over her waist, sighing. 

Morse slips back into sleep, and dreams warm marigold-tinted dreams. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re looking chipper,” Thursday tells him the next morning as they walk down to the car. Morse can feel the silver necklace sliding against his skin beneath his vest as he moves; the effort of not rubbing at it is distracting. He dug it out of his sock drawer this morning and put it on after much internal debate.

“Am I?” he replies, trying not to look coy. Thursday gives him an affirming look. “I think I’m doing better with my records,” he manages. “I had _Turandot_ on the other night; it went quite well.” 

“That’s good, then,” says Thursday, affably, as they get in. 

“Yes, sir.” He feels a burke for lying, but it has only been a few weeks. Monica could easily come to her senses, or something could go wrong between them, and although Thursday’s progressive with most things he’s not sure what his superior’s stance is on mixed relationships. 

“How’s the investigation going?” 

Morse purses his lips. “Still just running some enquiries, sir.” 

“Well don’t go wasting too much time on it if there’s nothing there.”

“No, sir.”

\----------------------------------------------------

He works on Bright’s Thames Valley paper in the morning, waiting for a call from DeBryn. It doesn’t come through before lunch, however just as he’s closing his file and considering risking whatever mystery the canteen has on offer today the sound of Bright’s voice makes him pause. He looks up to see the DCS round the corner from his office with a middle-aged man in a ranking officer’s uniform. He turns to ask Jakes who it is, but the sergeant is bent under his desk, retrieving something from the floor. 

Morse turns back to see Bright’s guest watching him over Bright’s shoulder. He gives Morse a faint, polite smile before turning his attention back to the DCS. A moment later, they continue on out of the CID and down the stairs. 

Morse blinks, then turns his attention back to thoughts of lunch. 

The call from DeBryn doesn’t come until later in the afternoon, by which time he’s nearly forgotten about it. 

“Morse.” He says, into the receiver.

“I spoke with some of my colleagues,” comes DeBryn’s voice, cutting to the quick. “I would not call their suggestions ‘solid.’ But for what they’re worth, the old bookmaker’s building on the corner of Hollow Way and the warehouse by Rose Hill cemetery were mentioned.”

Morse makes a note in his book. “Thank you.” 

“How are things with your lady friend?” DeBryn asks, mischievously.

“Thank you, doctor,” repeats Morse coldly, and rings off to the sound of the pathologist’s dry laugh. 

Morse glances at his watch – it’s getting on for four. He still has time to stop by at least one of the addresses, if only to see what’s there. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

The old bookmaker’s shop is a large, squat brick building with green awnings stretched along the front. The faded painted advertisements for the bookmaking business are still on the building’s side, doubtless decades old. At some point the building was clearly sub-divided into separate businesses; there are now three doorways at the front with different signs – a carpet-maker, some kind of plumbing repairs, and a printed materials manufacturer. 

It doesn’t seem very promising. He’s about to start the car’s engine when he sees a young man crossing the road up ahead – a young, blond man with wavy hair. He digs out Sam’s photograph, but he hardly needs it; he recognizes Paul Degardier easily as he walks by on the opposite sidewalk and enters the print materials shop. 

Morse slowly pulls the keys out of the ignition, and then gets out. He considers radioing back to the station as he crosses the road, but he’s only asking a few indirect questions. If he’s lucky, he may get Paul out to talk to him directly. 

A bell jingles above the door as he enters. The inside of the shop is dark and smells heavily of paper and ink, the scent evocative of the newspaper archives. There are a few naked bulbs hanging from strings overhead, protected by wire cages; they cast light down on a roughly made U-shaped wooden desk, its mouth towards the door. Behind it lining all the available walls are cheaply made shelves filled with stacks of posters, pamphlets and cardboard boxes. A closed door in the centre of the back wall presumably leads into the larger back area of the shop. 

There are two people standing behind the counter; neither of them are Paul. One is about Morse’s age with long dark hair and an unruly beard, the newsboy cap pulled low over his eyes not entirely disguising the way they glint red when they catch the light; he’s wearing a smock smeared with ink and holding a page of what looks to Morse’s untrained eye like advertising copy. The other is a middle-aged woman, dressed casually but in well-made clothes. She has a pleasant face, but the eye is immediately drawn to the wide scar running almost vertically from left eyebrow to cheekbone; it has destroyed most of the eye socket, and clearly with it her sight in that eye. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” asks the older woman politely, but with a slight edge. 

“I’m interested in ordering some material,” says Morse, glancing at the shelves. 

She directs the other man towards the back of the shop. “Alright Gus, we’ll decide about it later.” Gus disappears with a dark stare at Morse, leaving the two of them alone. “What was it you were wanting, then?”

“Perhaps you have a catalogue, someone to walk me through it? I don’t want to waste your time.”

The shopkeeper leans forward on the counter, folding together her hands – the strong, worn hands of a woman who’s worked with them. He notes the wedding band on her finger; old and plain but well-cleaned. “Certainly I don’t much time for people who mess me about. So tell me, officer, what do you think you would do with our services?”

Morse feels himself starting to sweat, heat gathering under his jacket and the back of his neck. His eyes slide hurriedly along the shelf behind the man, and catch on a few pamphlets that are lying partially uncovered. _… can be SAFE and SECURE … NO RISK to other students, staff, or … conversations with employees about integrating…_ He blinks.

“You’re producing moon-touched propaganda,” he says, shocked. 

She gives him an unimpressed look. “It isn’t propaganda. We provide educational materials to employers and educational institutions on how to integrate moon-touched workers and children safely and effectively. We do produce some promotional material with information about our services for businesses or institutions that aren’t customers.” She turns around and brings out the pamphlets Morse saw, aimed at schools and workplaces. 

“I’d like to see the educational material, please.” 

The shopkeeper shrugs, but leans over and pulls a ring-bound book from a shelf on the adjoining wall. “It’s for grammar schools,” she says, handing it over. Morse opens the book and glances at the table of contents. It seems to be very well thought-out, with sections about the history of stigma, legal standings, medical concerns, requirements regarding sigils and seals, case studies, and financial implications. 

“This is very thorough. Who designed it?” he asks, flipping through it. 

“I did,” says the shopkeeper, crossing her arms. “But as your lot doesn’t admit mine, what is it you’re really here for?” 

Morse closes the book and puts it down, pushing it back across the counter. He gives the woman a long, appraising look. It’s met with steady skepticism and wariness, but no antagonism. “I’m here for a friend, Mrs…?”

“Samuels.”

“Morse,” returns Morse, inclining his head. “DC, as you guessed.”

“It wasn’t a guess,” says Mrs Samuels, flatly. 

“I’m not here to cause you or your employees any trouble, Mrs Samuels – it seems like you have important work to do, and I imagine you get enough grief already.”

Mrs Samuels raises the eyebrow of her good eye, but doesn’t interrupt. 

“I’m here about a boy I saw come in – Paul Degardier. I’d like to talk to him.”

“And why’s that?” She doesn’t, at least, deny Paul’s presence. 

Morse hesitates, trying to judge the character of the woman, the shop. It doesn’t feel like a front for the packs, despite their work and the nature of their employees. 

“Lying will only get you as far as the door,” adds Mrs Samuels, casually, watching him. 

“Paul’s been struggling, gotten lost while trying to find himself,” says Morse, slowly. “Now the people closest to him are concerned that he’s walking into a dangerous decision.” 

“And what kind of decision would that be?”

“The kind young lads think will give them a family, strength, acceptance. The kind with fangs,” says Morse, bluntly. Mrs Samuels nods. 

“Come with me.” She reaches out and lifts up the end segment of the counter, creating a path to the area behind. Morse steps through, muscles tensed, eyes watchful. Mrs Samuels turns and leads the way through the back door into the space beyond.

The back of the shop is one large open area, lit from above with industrial-grade lights. The walls are brick, the floor naked concrete. In one corner is a small printing press, miniature compared to those used by the _Oxford Mail_ , currently silent. Along the right-hand wall are a series of desks equipped with lamps and typewriters, mostly occupied. In the centre of the room seems to be the typesetting area for the press, while along the back wall are the materials that feed it – ink, type, paper. On the far left side of the room sits a crude assembly area, less organized than the rest of the shop – the tables there are strewn with the glue, rings, hooks, punches and tools to bind books, as well as piles of packages for posting. 

About ten men and women are working currently, most either writing or assembling books or packages. Several of them turn to look as Morse and Mrs Samuels enter, before turning back to their work. They are a range of ages but tending towards younger, wearing casual clothes and aprons. Many of them show the signs of being moon-touched, completely unhidden. 

Mrs Samuels takes him around slowly, working her way through the room counter-clockwise. “Our mandate is to improve relations between the moon-touched community and all others for mutual benefit. We began operating on a national grant about eighteen months ago; it was nearly six months before we sent out our first material – handbooks for industrial complexes hiring moon-touched employees. Since then we’ve produced material for small businesses, grammar schools and secondary moderns, and universities. We write, edit, lay out, print, bind and mail all the material here. The press mostly runs at night, otherwise we couldn’t hear ourselves think.”

As they round the centre type-setting table Morse catches sight of Paul at the back of the shop sorting type into boxes, his hands covered in black ink. Mrs Samuels goes on in a slightly lower voice, pulling forward some of the metal stereos sitting on the table to examine them. “Of course, many of our employees are dedicated to our work for very personal reasons. And although the majority of it is carried out through our publications, we make it a policy to take on as many of those in need of help or guidance as we can. Everyone has needs, and they are all unique – financial assistance, protection, acceptance and understanding – we do our best to offer what we can to anyone who comes to us.”

“What if they were looking to belong in a more … tangible way?” asks Morse, pointedly.

Mrs Samuels leans on the table, picking an invisible piece of grit off its surface. “We would tell them that to belong is to have a purpose, and the acceptance and trust of friends. You don’t need anything more, and asking it is asking a friend to risk a prison sentence for you. So far, that’s a message that has been understood.”

Morse nods. “Good.” He looks around at the little community of men and women working to improve the conditions for others like them, and wonders if it will last – if it can. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. “Here. If you have any trouble – I’ll do what I can.”

Mrs Samuels glances at the number, then tucks it away carefully. “Oxford is more liberal than most places – which is why we chose it, of course. The Reductionists have been around a couple of times, but there aren’t any windows for them to break, or anything too noteworthy to set fire to, so hopefully they’ll leave things be.”

“Well, I wish you luck with it.” Morse reaches out and shakes Mrs Samuel’s hand – caution, self-assuredness, and a little slice of respect. He glances at Paul, still hard at work, then turns and sees himself out. 

By the time he gets back to the station and climbs up to the CID, Thursday’s office is dark and Jakes’ desk also vacated. He turns around, goes back down and heads home. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Perhaps tonight, Morse thinks as he climbs the stairs to his flat, they can go out to dinner. Nothing fancy – there’s an Italian place only a few blocks away; soft music, candles. He opens his door and goes to the wardrobe to change, still immersed in thought. After dinner they could come back, and perhaps – 

The flat’s buzzer sounds, boring into his thoughts with its drill-like tone. For a moment, he genuinely contemplates not answering it. However, as he stands hovering in the centre of the room it rings again, and his shaky resolve crumbles. He grabs his keys and treks back down the stairs. 

Sam Thursday is standing on the building’s front step, out of breath and flushed, his eyes bright with worry. “Morse! Thank God! Where’ve you been?!”

Morse frowns. “Pardon?”

Sam waves wildly. “Tonight. Jakes brought Dad home – he said you didn’t turn up to fetch him, or leave a note or anything. So I got worried and spilled the beans about Paul, and Dad nearly hit the roof. He rang you, but you weren’t in, and then he went tearing out of the house. I tried phoning too, but then I thought maybe you weren’t answering, or you might come in and I’d miss you so I cycled over here.”

Morse feels a cold pit open up in his stomach to claw in his heart. “When was this?”

Sam shrugs helplessly. “About half an hour ago.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.”

“Alright. I’ll find him. Go home and wait there –” Morse starts to go back in to fetch his coat, but Sam grabs his wrist. He’s stopped dead by the sudden blow of the lad’s fear and guilt, so strong it staggers him. 

“No – I’m coming with you. This is my fault, and you can’t go alone, what if you need help? What if –”

“Sam,” grits out Morse, pulling free, “Nothing is going to happen. But I can’t take you – you’re not a police officer, and you’re a minor. It’s just not possible.”

“He’s my _father_ ,” begins Sam. 

Morse takes hold of his shoulder, speaks slowly and deliberately. “I know that. But you have to trust me to do my job, and trust him to do his.”

Sam is staring at him with wild, angry eyes, shoulder tense as a spring under his hand. Morse takes a thin breath, his ribs feeling as though they’ve been caged with wire. “Sam, I lost both my parents and there was nothing I could do for them. I won’t let that happen to yours – ever. Not if there’s anything I can do to prevent it. Please. Trust me.” 

He can see the hesitation in Sam’s eyes, but after a moment he nods, then steps back. “Okay. I’ll go home and wait.”

“Good. Thank you.” Morse turns and runs back upstairs to fetch his coat, a knife, and call Strange at the station for a pick-up. When he comes back down to wait, Sam is gone. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

He has Strange drop him off outside the warehouse by the Rose Hill cemetery. “If I’m not out in ten minutes, call for back-up.”

“Let’s call now – you know Bright doesn’t like you taking risks. If I wait ten minutes before phoning, you could –”

“We didn’t come here to throw Thursday under the bus. If it turns out this is all a mare’s nest and Bright finds out about it, it’s not going to end well for any of us.” He pulls his necklace out to lie just under the collar of his coat. “Ten minutes.” He gets out and closes the door behind him before the PC can protest further. 

There are several long loading bay entrances into the warehouse closed by corrugated tin doors. At the end of these is a single regular metal door, lit from above by a single light set into the brick wall. Standing directly under it is a single guard. A fearful symmetry, thinks Morse, smiling grimly. He takes in a deep breath and walks over to the guard. 

The man – about Morse’s age, broken nose, torn ear – turns to stare, nose wrinkling. “No coppers.” 

“Funny, because you let one in just before I arrived. I want to see him.” The guard takes a step closer, standing so close he’s nearly touching Morse; Morse doesn’t move. “You can’t intimidate me, just like you couldn’t him. The fastest way to get rid of the both of us is to let me see him.” 

It’s a compete gamble. If Thursday’s _not_ here, he’ll have to go back to the station and confess all to Vice, and by extension Bright. And take the punishment meted out. 

He waits, staring the guard in the eye, until eventually the man gives a low growl and turns to disappear through the door, slamming it behind him. Morse can see his breath rising in pale clouds under the light as he waits, hands turning white at his sides – he doesn’t dare trap them in his pockets. 

After a couple of minutes the door opens again, the same man stepping out now with a second waiting inside. Morse glances at the guard, who jerks his head towards the door; Morse wonders briefly whether Thursday’s really here, or if he’s just being taken for a ride. Only one way to find out. He walks in. The door slams shut behind him. 

There’s no heating inside the warehouse; Morse’s hands are beginning to go numb as he walks along. Light walls of particleboard have been put up to create hallways and rooms out of the vast ware house floor; the walls are all regular height, however, and with the ceiling another storey overhead the effect is like a child’s toy house, all cut out from above to allow someone to look over the miniature world created within. The sound of conversations, barks and snarling, and footsteps on concrete all provide a constant background hum throughout the building. 

He’s led around several corners and finally into an office which does have its own roof and carpet, blocking out the sound of the warehouse. It’s done up richly – oak desk, hand-knotted carpet, real wood-panelled walls, leather-upholstered chairs: a very transparent display of wealth. Seated behind the desk is an upright, almost skeletal man with greying hair and sallow skin, wearing an expensive suit. On the other side of the desk, watching him with a very tight face, is Fred Thursday. 

They both turn as Morse enters. The man behind the desk shows no reaction at all; Thursday’s eyes widen slightly but otherwise he hides his surprise well. Nowhere near well enough when surrounded by wolves, though. 

“We should go, sir,” says Morse, quietly. Thursday looks at him very hard, but whatever it is he’s looking for he doesn’t seem to find it, because he turns back to the man behind the desk.

“Seems he’s turned up after all. I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he says, trying to put a polite edge on his brusqueness. Morse has clearly entered in the middle of a conversation. 

The man behind the desk raises his eyebrows, resting his elbows on the desk and balancing the tips of his long fingers against each other. “So you have found your cub. That is good for you. But you come in here swinging your accusations like a club, that is not good for me, is not good for us.” He has a slight Eastern European accent, Czechoslovakian, Morse guesses. 

“Don’t push it, Petr. I apologize for the mistake; let’s not pretend you’re running a sweet shop. We both know there’s enough illegal goods in this place to bury you, and we both know if I’d brought Vice down here tonight we’d’ve done it.”

“And if you had, you would be up shit’s river. How do you get a warrant with no proof? No. You have no cards, do not bluff.”

Morse raises his chin, taking a deep breath. “He may not, sir, but I do. I had proof that Inspector Thursday was here, and that I am here, and if we aren’t permitted to leave unmolested and unfettered in the next five minutes, a team of officers _will_ be paying an immediate visit.” It’s only a slight exaggeration. 

Thursday shoots him an angry glance, but he ignores it. The man behind the desk – Petr – turns watery blue eyes towards him. “It isn’t polite to bargain with a knife behind your back, cub,” he says, the register of his voice so low it’s nearly a growl. 

“We aren’t asking anything.”

“You are _asking_ forgiveness. I am not a very forgiving man.”

Morse looks down at the old mob boss with all the cold earnestness he can muster. “But I imagine you’re a shrewd one. Is making us pay worth the price of your business?” 

Petr’s mouth becomes a finer and finer line as he considers them from over the tips of his fingers. Then, finally: “Get out. If you come back, you bring your warrant. Or you pay the price.” 

They’re escorted out through the cold corridors by the same man who brought Morse in; they walk in silence. When they reach the door they step briskly through and continue on down the street, Morse fisting and unfisting his hands to try to return the circulation.

“Strange is parked just over there,” he says, nodding. 

“I’m around the corner. You come with me,” says Thursday flatly, gaze straight ahead as he marches on through the blackness. 

Morse stops at the car, Strange rolling down the window. “All clear. I’ll go back with the Inspector. See you tomorrow.” 

Strange looks like he wants to ask a question, but Morse gives him a pained half-smile and continues on before the constable can. He hears the engine start up behind him, then the headlamps flash past. 

Around the corner, Thursday is already getting into the waiting Jag, obviously procured somehow from the station when he decided to go chasing rumours. Morse gets in the passenger seat and sits silently, waiting. Thursday starts the car and pulls out, taking them north towards Oxford. They drive for a few minutes until the roughest Cowley scenery is behind them before he pulls over at the side of the road. 

“Now maybe you’d like to tell me what you’ve been up to,” he says as he turns to face Morse, anger very thinly veiled. 

“I haven’t been ‘up to’ anything, sir,” returns Morse. “Sam asked me to follow up on a mate of his from school, find out if he’d been sniffing ‘round the packs. So I looked into it – he hasn’t.”

“And you decided to keep secret the fact that you were investigating something at my son’s request potentially involving the packs.”

“I would have come to you if it had actually turned out to involve them, sir. As it was, it didn’t. I didn’t endanger myself, or –” 

“Anyone else?” finishes Thursday, dryly, raising his eyebrows pointedly. The words dry up in Morse’s throat. “There are a reasons we don’t run secret investigations, Morse, and this is one of them. But that aside, what if Sam hadn’t told me? What if he’d gone after you himself?”

“Then he would have had to go to his friend for information, and he would have found out the same thing I did – assuming he found out anything at all – that he hasn’t joined a pack, he’s working part-time for a moon-touched advocacy group and he doubtless doesn’t know how to tell his mates. Or he would have come to find me, like he did tonight, and I would have told him the same thing I did half an hour ago: to go home. I only take risks when there’s something vital at stake, sir. And I would never take them with your family.”

“You don’t call walking unarmed without back-up into the pack’s headquarters taking a risk?”

“That was different. Something _was_ at stake: you.”

Thursday shakes his head slowly. “And I suppose it would only make me a complete hypocrite to berate you for it,” he says, sounding somewhere between disappointed and resigned. 

Morse nods, the corners of his lips turning very slightly upwards. “Besides, I wasn’t unarmed.” He fishes out the pen-knife he’d brought with him. 

Thursday looks at it, then him. “Well. Good. Glad to know you took appropriate precautions.” He leans back and wipes a hand over his eyes. “You, Morse, are one of a kind.”

“It’s nice to think so, sir,” replies Morse, smiling softly.

“Yes. Because I don’t imagine Britain could sustain two.” Thursday shakes his head again, but returns the smile. He reaches out and turns the engine over. “Come on, you can come home and explain to Sam why he doesn’t need to worry about his pal running wild. You’ll have to tear him away from the rugby; call it your penitence.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Between explaining himself to the Thursdays and returning the Jag, it’s late when Morse gets home again. He puts on _La Traviata_ and makes himself a couple of sandwiches again, consumes them without real interest, then picks up his pyjamas and locks up. 

Across the hall Monica’s flat is dark, but a moment after he steps in she murmurs sleepily, “Morse?”

“Yes. Sorry; it’s late.” He changes in the sitting room by the dim light from the streetlamps filtering in through the window, leaving his clothes half-folded over the side of Monica’s loveseat. 

He crawls into the bed beside her, the sheets already warm from her presence, and presses a kiss against the crown of her head. “Goodnight, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel obliged to point out that Turandot is actually pretty problematic. On the other hand, there are not a lot of operas of which that is not true. 
> 
> The pill was legal to prescribe only to married women in Britain until 1974. 
> 
> Morse references William Blake’s “The Tyger”


	14. wild hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, there will be a demonstration alright. And it will end in the basement of the Radcliffe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Dark and violent themes, animal death.

Jakes doesn’t really care for The Queen’s Head; the beer is sour, the chimneys smoke and the long walk to his nearest bus is dangerous this time of year. But owing to its undesirable qualities it’s often unoccupied and its open rooms make it easy for large groups to hold conversations without worrying about being overheard. Sometime over the past few months apparently by group will alone, it became the regular meeting place of the local Reyist chapter. 

Oh, they do their praying in church, and their pamphlets and leaflets are delivered in a lorry from somewhere in the North, but their more… missionary activities they plan over pints at the local pub. 

When they first found him willing to sell scraps of information, they were just planning the usual proselytizing: which corners to stand on, what employers to visit, which churches might be open to their message. Occasionally, which business to lean on, which neighbourhoods to vandalize. It’s small fry stuff, scare tactics without too much scare in them. 

Lately, though, something else has been going on. Jakes has dropped some of his other more lucrative contacts for the chance to dig in more deeply with the Bible thumpers. The usual barrage of protesting and decrying has been left to the junior ranks; the seniors are busy making plans. Plans for some kind of event, a demonstration, Jakes thinks. 

It’s only tonight, on a foggy November evening when he would much rather be home drinking his own alcohol or in some much better pub where there might be a chance of finding himself a bird, that he finally receives the first clue to the whole business. 

“Campbell’s making all the arrangements; all that’s left is to make sure everyone shows.” A couple of the real fire brands are talking in a corner again, planning over some scraps of paper. Jakes, most of the way through his lager, glances up at his neighbour. There’s no one named Campbell in the local patch. But he has a good idea who they’re talking about. 

“Is that Bill Campbell?” he asks offhandedly. The other man, an off-and-on drinking mate named simply Tom who is in the pub at all hours and has a perpetual smell of curry about him, gives him a cautious glance. 

“Think so. Why?”

Jakes rolls his eyes. “Naturally curious. ‘Sides, wouldn’t want to miss it if there were some action coming into town.”

Tom shrugs. “Above my pay grade.”

“Fair enough.” He finishes his glass and glances at Tom’s, also mostly empty. “Another?”

\--------------------------------------------------------------

He’s putting together some case notes for an upcoming court case the next morning when Thursday and Morse turn up, coats still wrapped tightly around them against the early morning cold. 

Like most old buildings, Cowley Station’s heating is eclectic, and the building’s temperature varies wildly by region. The CID office is usually chilly in the winter, but perfectly habitable in a heavy wool suit. Thursday’s office on the other hand is usually sweltering by the end of the day unless a window is opened, which if left open overnight renders it frigid by the next morning. 

Jakes walks past Morse, stripping out of his car coat, and into Thursday’s office – icy, window open. The Guv’nor is already stepping around the desk to shut it with a quiet curse. 

“Can I have a word, sir?”

“What is it?” Thursday turns back, taking off his hat and coat and putting them up on the hat stand before returning to his desk. Jakes stands in front of him, hands tucked in his pockets against the cold air. 

“It’s – you know I sometimes drink with the Reyists, sir. Lately they’ve been getting cagey; for a while there was a lot of rhetoric about Oxford being too complacent, too soft – that sort of thing. And lately they’ve been meeting more often but saying less, the men at the top making plans but not telegraphing them.”

Thursday’s mouth has been tightening into a thin frown. He nods. “Go on.” 

“I’ve had the sense that they’ve been preparing for something big, some kind of demonstration, but as I said, no one’s really been talking. But last night I was in the pub with them and they dropped a name. Bill Campbell.” 

Thursday sits up. “You’re sure?”

He shrugs. “That’s what they said. I’ve nothing solid; no dates, no information about what he’s coming here for – if he really is.”

“Step out and fetch Morse in,” says Thursday, grimly. 

It’s very nearly the last thing Jakes expected him to say, and for a moment the sergeant just stares at him. But then Thursday raises his eyebrows, and he turns to do as he’s told. He sticks his head out the door, fishing a cigarette out. “Oi.”

Morse looks up, and Jakes jerks his head towards the office, going back inside without waiting for him. By the time he comes in, shutting the door behind him, Jakes has lit the cigarette. 

“Sergeant Jakes has just informed me that he has received information that Bill Campbell will be coming down to join the Reductionists,” says Thursday flatly. 

Morse turns slowly to look at Jakes, eyes wide. More than a year ago now, the _Mail_ ’s photographer caught him off guard, flash-bulb half-blinding him and immortalizing his a half-irritated, half-shocked expression on the front page of the paper. He looks much the same now, only the shock burns off very quickly. 

“What? When?”

“I don’t know. I know nothing about it at all, other than he’s coming down – may already be here – for some kind of demonstration.”

Morse is staring at him as though he were a foreign species; it’s very annoying. “Oh, there will be a demonstration alright,” he says, after a moment. “And it will end in the basement of the Radcliffe.”

It’s Jakes’ turn to stare. “How can you be sure? They’re fools here, but –”

“Don’t you know who Bill Campbell is?” interrupts Morse.

“Of course,” snaps Jakes. “Everyone does. One of the most notorious Reyists in Britain; one of the few extremists left who still preaches outright violence and murder. But that doesn’t mean –”

“He’s also one of the few men left who’s willing to run wild hunts. And he’ll never be charged with it, because he has a vanguard of fanatics willing to take the blame for him if it comes to that. Anything so he can carry on his mission. Rounding up victims for the chase, to be hunted like animals until the dogs finally catch them and the crowd descends. They carry silver for moon-touched, fire for sun-touched. And then the demonstration is over.” Morse’s eyes are shining, bright with outrage; his cheeks are reddening with it. 

“You’re an expert in this too, then, are you?” drawls Jakes, hiding his own sudden deep anger beneath careless aplomb. His case, a he’s been working for months in his own spare time, giving up the chance of profit to do so, and even here somehow Morse has found a way to elbow in. 

Morse is staring at him, the blue of his eyes knife-sharp. “No. I grew up hearing the dogs on the wold.”

“What will he do, do you think?” asks Thursday, breaking in. Morse turns away, and Jakes can almost feel the absence of his gaze, like the lifting of a weight. 

“Someone will go missing. Either someone young, or a woman, or someone elderly. They almost never take young, strong men. Wouldn’t want to make it _dangerous_ ,” he spits. “We should put a story out in the paper that he’s coming – we need to warn people.”

“You do that the day after I found out and they’ll know I talked. We’ll lose our only inside source,” says Jakes.

“And you’ll lose your added income.”

“Morse,” warns Thursday, eyes flashing to the constable. Morse frowns but lowers his head. “We must have other sources inside the Reductionists.”

Jakes shrugs. “Sources, but not reliable ones. They’ll clam up the moment it comes to anything about Campbell. No one’s ever bothered to seriously recruit a snitch there.” Because no one ever thought they were a threat. Not in Oxford. 

Thursday looks from Jakes to Morse. “Putting the notice about Campbell out in the paper – is it worth cutting Jakes lose?”

Morse licks his lips, slowly. “I think most people would understand what it means, sir. But there will be students who won’t, or young people who don’t read the news from the North. To them it might not mean anything. And if we spelled it out it would be libel. Not to mention they still might not believe it.” 

“Sooner or later, they’ll find a victim,” concludes Thursday. Morse twists his fingers in the sleeve of his jacket, but nods. “Then we need to concentrate on finding them, instead. Find them, and keep a watch on them until Campbell leaves town. I’ll speak to Mr Bright, we’ll need a full team working on this.”

He makes to stand and then pauses, eyes turning to the door behind them. A knock announces Strange’s arrival. “Sorry sir, but a call’s just come in.”

“What is it?”

“From Hinksey. Two missing children.” 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

The two children are Stephen and Angie Beake, 14 and 12. They share a partially divided room at the back of a sprawling, ramshackle house looking out towards the train tracks. When they didn’t rise for breakfast their mother went to wake them, and found their beds empty, the back window open. Neither was the type to run off, nor had any cause to, according to their parents. 

Jakes isn’t sure he believes that; the house is a complete tip, plaster cracking on the walls and ceiling, flooring eclectic and uneven. Money is obviously tight; Mrs Beake works in the local school canteen, Mr Beake is some sort of jobbing handyman. Even in the darkened room and with a cap on his head, it’s not hard to pick out the red light shining in Beake’s eyes. Jakes sets his teeth. 

“Did you hear anything in the night?” Thursday is asking. They both shake their heads, Mrs Beake crying softly into a handkerchief. “No cars? No footsteps? No dogs?”

They shake their heads again. 

“Is there anyone who would want to hurt your family? Someone with a grudge against you? Someone you owe money to?”

“We keep ourselves to ourselves.” Beake shakes his head. “How could we borrow money? We’d never be able to pay it back. And any gate, who’d lend it to us?”

“Have you ever had any trouble with the Reductionists?” asks Thursday, gently. They look at him, surprised. Beake lifts his cap slightly, the red light glinting in his growing brighter. 

“They’ll heckle me if they see me on the street, but that’s as far as it goes usually.”

“And your children?” asks Morse, speaking for the first time. 

“Heckle ‘em too,” says Beake angrily, showing sharp teeth. 

They gather pictures from the Beakes showing two smiling, happy kids, and thank them for their time before leaving.

“It’s them. They’ve been taken,” says Morse, as they get into the Jag.

“You don’t know that,” replies Thursday, calmly. “Wait for more evidence before you go haring off after the worst conclusion.”

But Morse just shakes his head, staring morosely out the window as Jakes starts the car and takes them back to the station. 

\----------------------------------------------------

The station is whipped up into a fervour, heightened by Bright’s announcement that the Chief Constable wants a speedy, non-violent resolution to the potential situation which is brewing. News bulletins are released, special constables are called up, but the link to Campbell and the Reyists is kept silent for the time being. Just two missing children, suspected kidnapped. 

Morse’s comments that the children will be brought to some wide open space where the hunt can take place, are less than helpful. There are fields lying fallow a stone’s throw from Oxford in all directions, as well as several parks, meadows and golf courses. There’s no way to put a watch on all of them, or even a fraction. They set men instead at the church, and The Queen’s Head, but both are empty. The bigwigs aren’t at their homes, and trailing the little fish will get them nowhere. 

They tick through the day working search grids with the resources they have, not even that sure what they’re looking for. It’s entirely possible the children are being kept somewhere hidden until dusk; in which case scouring potential locations for the hunt is an utter waste of time. But they’ve few other options. 

By the late afternoon they’ve found nothing and the atmosphere in the nick is fractious, even Thursday growing sharp. Jakes is sent out to trawl the pubs looking for someone – anyone – with a lead. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

By eight o’clock he’s been in most of the grungier holes in Cowley, as well as some of Oxford’s more upscale establishments, and found nothing for his trouble but a bellyful of soda water interspaced with a few half-pints. 

He stops by his flat while he’s in the neighbourhood to change his shirt and wash his face. He hears the phone start to ring as he slots his key into the lock; he gives it a hard twist and shoves the door open.

“Hello?”

“Peter? It’s Tom. Still interested in some action?”

Jakes grips the receiver tighter, feeling his heartbeat quickening. “You know it. Where?”

“I’ll take you. Do you have a car?”

He bites his lip. “I can borrow one. Ready in an hour?”

“Make if half. They’re not giving much time.”

Jakes glances at his watch. Ten past eight. “Alright. Can you meet me at my flat?”

“Where is it?”

He gives the address, and Tom agrees and rings off. Jakes kills the line and dials again immediately – Thursday’s office. It rings and rings, Jakes cursing under his breath, willing the old man to answer. Finally there’s a click, then Thursday’s voice. “Thursday.”

“It’s me, sir. They’re meeting tonight. I don’t know where; I’ve been asked for a ride in half an hour’s time and I suppose I’ll be told then. I have the Jag with me, but…”

“Too conspicuous,” agrees Thursday. There’s a moment of silence while they both think. Then, “I’ll send Morse over with an unmarked banger; he can come back in the Jag. I’ll run out in one myself as well and trail you. Soon as it’s clear where you’ve gone I’ll head back and call back-up in. So mind you don’t keep looking at the mirror.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. Once you’re there, you just play along until we show up; they’ll flatten you if you try to stop them.”

“Yes, sir,” says Jakes again, more grimly this time.

“Good luck.” 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

It’s been more than fifteen minutes by the time Morse shows up outside his door in an old Morris, the paint flecking and the frame rusting badly. He parks it equally between two streetlamps, leaving it mostly in the shadows, and gets out hurriedly. Jakes, waiting on the pavement, expects him to come round to hand over the keys. Instead he stops at the boot and unlocks it, raising the hatch. Jakes glances in; it’s empty. Morse tosses him the keys – distracted as he is by the boot, he nearly doesn’t see them and fumbles before catching them. 

“Right,” says Morse, one hand on the hatch. “Soon as you get there and no one’s around, you open it. Okay?”

Jakes stares at him in incomprehension which, a second later, turns into complete disbelieving horror as Morse starts to step into the boot. 

“No – absolutely not. You are not coming. Get the hell out of here, Morse, before my contact shows up.”

“There’s no time to argue about it,” says Morse, foot on the bumper.

“Right, there isn’t. Which is why I’m _ordering_ you to stay here. Take the goddamn Jag back to the nick and wait ‘til Thursday calls.”

“I’m not going to let them hunt those kids down. Not here, not now.”

“ _You can’t stop it_ ,” hisses Jakes, but Morse jerks out of his grip and climbs hurriedly into the darkness of the boot. 

“No, but I can slow them down. Just let me out when you get there.” He reaches up and shuts the hatch behind him, leaving Jakes alone on the darkened street, fuming. 

All he has to do is not open the boot. Just leave Morse in there when they arrive, and everything will be fine. 

Unless they find the kids right away, before back-up gets there. Then there will be nothing he can do, and there’s no way he can stand for that. 

“Hullo. Ready?”

Jakes looks up and sees Tom crossing the road to join him. He nods. “Just checking my torch,” he says, and climbs in the car.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

They drive south, past Littlemore, past the football club, toward Garsington. It’s all open fields here, some empty dirt ploughed up from summer or autumn crops, but most are pastures – either for sheep or cattle or for hay. The fields are separated from the roads and each other by dark, square-cut hedges; in the darkness Jakes can only tell that they look thick and difficult to cross. 

They carry on along the small road that leads towards Garsington until they come to a larger break in the hedge, and Tom gives a little shout. Jakes brakes sharply and turns in. On the other side of the hedge a field is being churned to mud by a flock of vehicles and a small crowd standing on their far side. 

As they park and get out of the car it’s easy to tell they’re in the right place. Several members of the crowd are carrying burning torches, all are carrying weapons of some kind: clubs, knives, hoes, axes. Jakes, with only his usual knife, feels suddenly very conspicuous. In all the group he sees only one rifle, held by a man standing towards the front of the crowd in non-descript dark clothing. Beside him is the centre of the crowd’s attention. 

Bill Campbell is a large man, both tall and broad-shouldered with a bulk that even from a distance Jakes can see is muscle rather than fat. His hair is thick and wild about his head like a bird’s nest, his voice projected by force of habit. He wears a pea jacket, unbuttoned, beneath which metal gleams at his waist when he moves. His hands are empty; mostly, he is shaking hands with exuberant members of the crowd. Men and women who are pleased to be here to participate in this blood bath. Jakes turns away; Tom glances at him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Just have to fetch the torch.”

Tom nods and heads on. Jakes unlocks the boot and opens it. “Out. Now,” he says to the thick pool of darkness below, and walks away. 

Off to the right of the gathering crowd a set of three wire cages has been set up. From inside comes a constant low, anxious whining, the cages moving as the creatures within grow increasingly frantic. A dour-faced man with an electric torch is standing beside them, paying no attention to the people drawing in nearby. 

In fact, no more cars seem to be arriving now, the small group apparently mostly present. Jakes makes a quick count in the flickering torchlight and comes up with twenty-six, mostly men – no kids, which is some kind of mercy at least. 

“Friends,” says Campbell, spreading his arms for silence. Jakes joins the crowd, standing at the back and lighting a cigarette. “You know who I am. You know why I’m here. You’re tired. Tired of sending your children into danger every day in the halls of learning. Tired of watching good jobs being taken from decent people. Tired of seeing the hundreds of tiny ways muck is being dressed up as pearls. You live in a city of history, of knowledge, of learning – but I see only a handful of wise men and women. Only a handful who know the truth: that the monsters who live among us are a plague, a disease that threatens us all, and the only answer is to scour our homes of them until our streets and schools and cities are clean. We start tonight.”

There’s a long, ragged cheer, the empty fields ringing with it. The dogs’ howling grows to a frenzied pitch, and Campbell looks over to the man standing beside them and nods. He opens the cages, grabbing their thick leather leads as they stream out and following them as they take off. They’re low-slung, heavy-set dogs that look to Jakes’ untrained eye vaguely like beagles – clearly bred for tracking rather than speed. But they swarm across the grass at a frantic, desperate pace all the same, noses to the ground. 

The crowd, Campbell in front, turns to follow.

\-----------------------------------------------------

They chase their quarry for a nearly two miles across several small fields, crossing through hedge gates and gaps multiple times, before it becomes apparent that they’re following a lone figure. Even under a clear sky the light is poor, and the distance between them wide. They’ve circled back to the very far end of the field they arrived in; it’s nearly half a mile to the road, the figure a good few hundred yards ahead and moving fast. 

Jakes drifts closer to Campbell as a few of the men gather for a hushed conversation at the front of the group. He only catches the conclusion. 

“But who the hell is he?”

“Does it matter? Loose the dogs.” 

Jakes’ head snaps up, but the dogs are already being let off their leads. They fly like arrows from bows, shooting ahead of the group and letting out an unearthly howling as they go. Ahead, the solitary man – and there’s only one person it can be – starts to run. 

The stretch of field ahead is open and empty. The one mark on the landscape is a tall plane tree, rising proud and strong – it could be millennia old, more ancient than the city and its stuffy colleges. The dogs chase their prey to it and disappear in its shadow; only their endless howling tells that they haven’t emerged from the other side.

The crowd’s running now, flaming brands streaming in the air; Jakes is at the front, knife naked in his hand for all the good it might do. They arrive to find the dogs scrabbling at the foot of the mighty tree, barking and jumping up only to rebound off its trunk, thwarted.

About six feet off the ground the bole of the tree splits into two halves, each easily the size of two men’s torsos. Crouched low in this cradle, white-faced and breathing hard, is Morse. He stares down at the ring of men and women bearing arms and burning torches, the firelight reflected in his eyes, and says nothing. 

Jakes is reminded very strongly of a cornered animal. For the first time tonight, he feels very genuine fear run like ice-water down his spine. 

Campbell steps forward, taking the rifle from the man at his shoulder and handing him his torch. “You should have stayed home tonight. It’s not a mistake you’ll make again.”

“It’s your mistake,” replies Morse, in a nearly-steady voice. “I’m a police officer, and I’m here to keep you from murdering two innocent children. We know who you are, and we know what you’re doing. Reinforcements are on the way. As for them,” he kicks a small branch down at the dogs, who snarl, “I borrowed this coat from a wolf in lock-up.”

Jakes feels his gut clench violently, as though a cold hand had reached in to twist them. Morse is wearing his ordinary car coat, the same one he’s been wearing for the past two years. 

Morse didn’t come here to set up a distraction. He came to _be_ the distraction. 

“Take it off,” says Campbell, gesturing with the rifle. Morse hesitates, but after a moment does. “Throw it down.”

Morse bundles the coat up and drops it. Before it can hit the ground the dogs have snatched it out of the air. They tear it apart between them, growling savagely as they shred it. Morse pulls back, eyes wide. 

Campbell waits for the dogs’ frenzy to abate, their tempers cooling when the coat is just scraps of fabric on the dark earth. When they’re done nosing at it, they go back to growling at Morse. “Now your shoes,” he says, smiling darkly. 

Morse stares back silently, until Campbell starts to raise the rifle. He undoes his shoes one by one, then pulls them off and drops them down together. 

The dogs go mad, fighting each other for them and worrying the leather like dead rats. A low murmur runs through the crowd. Jakes can feel the mood darkening, postures tensing, hands tightening on weapons. 

Campbell turns to the group, looking across them. “What do you say to that? Monsters not only going to school with your children, working alongside you taking your jobs – now they’re hiring them to dispense justice. Who do you suppose they favour? What do you think this is a sign of?”

“It’s a sign that your time is over,” breaks in Morse, in a low voice. “It’s a sign that England is changing – that ordinary people don’t have to turn to fear and hatred and don’t want to. In the whole country there are only a handful of bastards evil enough to run these sick hunts, going about trying to convince people the only way to protect themselves is to kill innocents. That’s not safety, it’s murder. ”

“Wrong: it’s not murder. You’re not human.” Campbell brings up the rifle so fast Morse can only raise his hands. Jakes, standing beside Campbell, shoves the barrel up in the air as he pulls the trigger. The bullet whistles up into the sky. 

Several things happen at once. 

Morse spins around and half-leaps, half-falls out of the tree, taking off running in the opposite direction from the crowd. The dogs, until now beginning to settle down, leap up and tear off after him in full voice. Several people try to grab Jakes, who breaks free with a jab of his elbow and a sweep of his knife and goes after Morse. And the bulk of the crowd starts after them. 

As a child Jakes was small for his age, but with a will for trouble from the cradle. His only allies in escaping the repercussions were speed and evasion, and he prides himself to think that they’re not skills he’s lost. Running after Morse, though, he is outpaced like a boy chasing a man. 

The constable has already set up a formidable lead even running barefoot across the field. He’s running like a hare, running, Jakes thinks very grimly, like his life depends on it. But he’s still not as fast as the dogs, which for all their short legs and pudgy bodies are eating up the distance between them and Morse. 

As he runs, Jakes realises that something’s moving off ahead and to his left. He glances up to see what it is, and finds a series of lights streaming towards them. Car headlamps. Back-up. About bloody time. For a moment it seems like only one vehicle lumbering towards them, but then they start to fan out and he counts at least six.

Jakes risks a look over his shoulder to see what effect it’s had on his pursuers, and feels his heart skip. At the sight of the cars most of the crowd has broken away and is splitting off in opposite directions. But by the moonlight he can see one figure standing still, back straight and arms outstretched toward them, a pale sheen glinting on the rifle’s barrel. 

Jakes turns around, feeling as though he’s trapped in tar. “MORSE!” He hears his own voice echoing across the open fields, sharp and desperate. 

It’s impossible to tell which happens first: the shot, or the dogs reaching Morse. The rapport of the gun has an almost physical force; the shock of it drops Jakes to his knees for all that he was expecting it. Morse goes over, the dogs on his back, as the rifle fires. He tumbles forwards like a tossed doll and hits the ground without catching himself; lies there, unmoving, the dogs piling on top of him. 

“NO!” comes a gruff roar from off to the left; the police cars have stopped, dark figures streaming out of them towards him. Jakes glances back to see Campbell running in the opposite direction. 

Jakes gets to his feet and starts running again – the dogs are on Morse, snarling as they worry at him. Jakes’ lungs are burning, his muscles cramping up. Two different officers try to stop him; he nearly rips their heads off as he fights past them: “It’s Jakes, you asses, Sergeant Jakes. _Move_.”

He reaches Morse just before Thursday, grabbing the dogs by their collars and hauling them off. They strain desperately against him, claws digging trenches in the earth as they skid backwards. Strange and Nixon arrive a moment later, bearing torches and a lantern.

“Here – you two: get these things the hell out of here,” snaps Jakes, arms beginning to tremble under the strain. He’s still panting, lungs burning from the long sprint. Nixon puts the lantern down beside Morse and comes to take the dogs, dragging them away towards the cars. 

The third dog is lying unmoving by Morse; Jakes nudges it with his foot and it rolls slightly, dead. 

Thursday is already on the ground beside Morse, face tight with worry. He’s lost his hat somewhere between the car and Morse, strands of hair falling loose into his face. He rips open the back of Morse’s suit jacket along the seam from tail to collar, folding the two sides apart like black wings, then shoves up Morse’s shirts to reveal a pale, unmarked back. 

Thursday lets out a breath, his shoulders slumping and eyes closing in a vivid sketch of relief. When he pulls himself together again he turns Morse over carefully, cradling his head and neck, and opens his collar. There’s blood and dirt on Morse’s face; his lip is split and it looks like he has a cut over his left eyebrow. 

Jakes drops down onto his knees, suddenly exhausted, while Thursday checks Morse’s heartbeat. Now that Morse is on his back and in the silence left by the dog’s departure it’s clear that he’s alive – he’s gasping for breath, panting harder than Jakes. 

Thursday is obviously reassured because after a moment he leans back, a little of the tension easing out of the hard line of his mouth. He reaches out and brushes some of the dirt from Morse’s face with a soft hand, pushing his hair away from his forehead as he does so and glancing at the bleeding head wound. “Morse? Morse? _Endeavour_.” 

Apparently the order to put in some effort works. Morse stirs, eyelids fluttering for a moment before sliding open. He stares up at Thursday almost blankly for several seconds, then draws in a huge breath and tries to sit up, expression tightening into near-panic. “Sir – I –”

Thursday pushes him down by the shoulder and holds him there. “Hey, easy. Just stay there for a minute. You took quite a tumble. Everything’s fine – you’re alright. Okay?” His grip turns from firm to comforting as Morse stops fighting, but he doesn’t release it. 

Morse’s eyes flash from Thursday to Jakes, wide and uncertain. “I…”

“We have about 30 officers out here rounding up your would-be hunters, Morse. We’ll have any of the laggards in custody within the hour, and most of the rest by morning. We caught the dogs, too,” he adds. “Just rest for a minute.”

Morse nods a little groggily, eyes slanting partially shut again. Thursday slumps back on his haunches and reaches up a shaky hand to push his hair out of his face. “Christ, I need a fag,” he mutters. Jakes looks at him, shocked, but digs into his pocket and fishes out his packet to offer one. Thursday takes it, lighting it with his own lighter and inhaling deeply, gaze focused off in the distance. After a moment he looks down at the cigarette between his fingers, shakes his head ruefully. “Been off these for years.”

“Sir, we need to find the children,” says Morse, still catching his breath. 

Thursday looks down, face darkening. “All you’re doing is going home. Jakes can take you. We’ve enough men to search, and more on the way. Right now there are two dozen violent fugitives out there who from what I saw would happily do either of you in; you’re both liabilities, not assets,” he says, forcefully, when they begin to protest. “Unless you know where they are?” 

Morse shakes his head, face lined with regret. 

“Alright. Then you go. Unless you need to go to hospital?”

“No, sir, I’m okay.” He starts to sit up, his face freezes, and Thursday reaches out to catch him. “I’m fine,” he grits out, pushing away Thursday’s arm and straightening the rest of the way more slowly. “Just sore.” 

“Dog must’ve caught the bullet; you just took the fall,” says Jakes. 

“Lucky,” comments Thursday, eyebrow raised. “Who fired it?”

“Campbell.” 

“Was anyone else armed?”

“All of them,” mutters Morse, rubbing his head. Thursday looks to Jakes.

“Not with firearms, sir. They all have weapons; mostly knives and clubs.”

“Huzzah for the old lynch mob,” says Thursday blackly. “Alright. Jakes, you take Morse home. All the way, mind. Strange, give him a hand to the car. We’ll see to things here.” He and Strange get Morse to his feet. Morse stands dizzily, holding onto the PC for balance, his face an ugly colour in the artificial light. He doesn’t let go of his grip as they head off towards the cars, Strange encouraging him along. Jakes makes to follow, and is stopped by Thursday’s hand on his shoulder.

“Jakes.” 

Jakes turns, and at the sight of steel in Thursday’s eyes stops, stiffening. “Sir?”

Thursday is looming, weight on the balls of his feet, shoulders set squarely. In this moment he doesn’t feel anything like the old man who spends most of his time guiding them through cases – sometimes leading, sometimes letting them lead, very occasionally bawling them out – but never with the intractable meanness that Jakes is so familiar with in men with power over another. 

Now, Thursday’s perpetual decentness has disappeared as though it had never been there. Jakes sees a man capable of violence, a man who has killed often and without scruples, when the situation demanded it. And he knows for the first time that Thursday is dangerous – far more dangerous than he would ever have thought. 

“You take Morse’s secret to your grave, or I’ll dig it for you. Understood?” breathes Thursday, with all the iciness of the north wind. Jakes swallows and nods, once. “Good. I’ll check in on him later. You can make your report tomorrow morning. Well done.”

He leans back, and the shadow is gone as though it was never there; he is just Fred Thursday, plain and pleasant. Jakes turns and walks quickly towards the car, trembling badly. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

They ride through the shadows in silence, the only sound that of the heater blowing out warm air onto Morse’s tense frame. Outside the world is nothing but shades of black, still too far from town for streetlamps. 

“You alright?” asks Jakes eventually, looking at Morse, hunched over at the far end of the bench seat. His face is still white, skin smeared with dirt and blood. He raises his head slowly. 

“You don’t care.” His voice is harsh, the guttural sound of a man who is exhausted or ill. 

Jakes raises an eyebrow. “Don’t I?”

“No. You hate people like me.” He says it with a cold, angry certainty that simultaneously tells Jakes what he is – heart-thief – and ignites Jakes’ own rage. 

“Yeah, Morse, I do. Want to know what it is I hate? That people like you take our choices away from us, and half the time they pretend it doesn’t even matter. Well it does. Every time you take my choices from me, it damn well matters. Whether that’s my ability to protect my feelings, my thoughts, my humanity – doesn’t matter.” 

Beside him Morse has forced himself to straighten, face tight with tension and pain as he watches Jakes with sharp eyes, his hands half-fisted. 

Jakes takes a deep breath, forcing himself to loosen his grip on the wheel, the leather of his gloves squeaking. “But it doesn’t mean I hate _you_ , and it doesn’t mean I want anyone dead. Blood doesn’t carry evil. The only monsters I know are men,” he adds in an undertone, staring out into the darkness. 

Slowly, like ice melting, Morse relaxes, shoulders hunching again as he half-slumps into his corner. “We can’t help it,” he says, with less anger than he had expected. “We can’t just… turn it off.” he flexes his hands, still very pale from the cold night air. 

“Then wear gloves. Ask first,” says Jakes. 

“And end up with a bullet in my back?” asks Morse. He pulls a hand down over his face, leaves it wrapped over his throat as if to protect it. “If back-up hadn’t arrived, they would have burned me.”

The conversation stops, dead. 

For a moment Jakes can see Morse sitting in the bole of the plane tree staring down at the mass of figures, firelight reflected in his eyes. He imagines he has a fair idea what Morse was thinking. 

“Stopped ‘em, didn’t I?” he says, breaking the silence.

“The first time. You wouldn’t have had another chance. Campbell’d have tossed you in after me if you’d tried.” Morse has stiffened up, face very white. He sounds so sure, so bleakly accepting. All the fight’s gone out of him, no trace of his earlier spirit. 

“Then I suppose it’d have been a bloody great bonfire,” snaps Jakes. “There are worse things than trying to save someone. Not trying, for one.”

Morse opens and then closes his mouth, swallowing audibly. “Stop the car,” he says, thickly. Jakes glances at him, frowning, and sees his shoulders starting to heave. He brakes heavily as Morse scrabbles at the door with his free hand, pulling over to the side of the road. Morse stumbles out as soon as the Jag stops, disappearing into the darkness. Through the open door, Jakes can hear him retching. 

Jakes rubs at the bridge of his nose, pressure starting to build there. After a minute he steps out, rounding the car. 

Morse is on his hands and knees beside the ditch, coughing and shivering. He seems to have finished being sick, but he hasn’t gotten up. He raises his head as Jakes comes to stand beside him, sitting up and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. 

“I spent most of my life in fear of that man, those people,” he says eventually, looking away from Jakes. His voice is thick, near to breaking. Jakes stares at his shaking back for a moment, then drops down on his haunches beside him. The language of fear is one of the few they have in common. 

“You went anyway; might have saved those kids’ lives,” he offers. 

Morse shakes his head slowly. “Maybe. But Campbell will beat the charges; he always does. And when he gets out he’ll find me and finish what he started.” 

“Thursday’d never let that happen. Nor would the rest of us. You may be an ornery arsehole, Morse, but you’re ours – we don’t let what’s ours go.”

Morse looks at him, tired and ill and resigned. He shakes his head again, no more convinced by Jakes’ words than Jakes is, but starts to stand all the same. Jakes rises and grabs his arm, helping him up. “Let’s go home.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

Morse is quiet for the rest of the ride back. It’s only when they get out of the car at his flat that he speaks again, staring up in a sort of abysmal despair at the building. “Sod.”

“What?”

“My keys. They were in my coat. Along with my wallet,” he adds, sounding a little shocked.

The coat that’s now in tatters in the middle of a field near Garsington. Jakes bites his tongue against a curse. “Do you have a spare?”

Morse rubs at his eyes, swaying a little alarmingly. “Thursday does, but I don’t know where he keeps it. I suppose –”

“Is everything alright?”

Jakes looks up to see a young black woman in a nurse’s outfit coming out of the building’s front door in a hurry, her eyes focused on Morse. Morse straightens, hand falling away. “Miss Hicks.” He sounds very relieved. “Sergeant Jakes, my neighbour Miss Hicks.”

The nurse has had time to take in Morse’s condition – bloody face, torn clothes, no shoes, and is frowning in obvious concern. 

“He’s had a bit of a fall, miss,” says Jakes, improvising. “Can you let us in?”

“Of course. He can wait in my flat while I get a key from the landlady.” She turns around and unlocks the front door, shut since she left, and holds it open for them. 

Morse, predictably, lives on the third storey. He makes it up the first flight of stairs without too much difficulty, and takes the second more slowly. But by the third Miss Hicks is holding his elbow, and halfway through gives Jakes an alarmed look just soon enough for him to grab Morse’s other arm before he tips. They get him up the rest of the stairs between them; Morse seems to recover a little in the corridor and manages it with Jakes’ arm around his side while Miss Hicks hurries on to open her door. 

“You can put him on the loveseat,” she says, flicking on the lights. The flat is small but tidy, pleasantly scented and decorated with small, bright paintings. Jakes puts Morse down on the sofa as instructed, the constable curling up immediately onto his side. “’M fine,” he mutters, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“He hit his head,” says Jakes, “And his back might be a bit bruised as well,” he adds. Miss Hicks appears with a first aid kit, setting it down on an end table and hurrying into the kitchen. 

“What happened to him?” she asks worriedly, filling a large bowl with hot water. Jakes smiles reassuringly.

“Someone caught him in the back, knocked him over and he hit his head. He’ll be fine.”

“And his feet?” she asks, glancing around the narrow wall towards the loveseat. “And his coat?”

Jakes frowns; nurses are trained to be observant, he supposes, but this is growing inconvenient. “He lost them,” he says, trying not to sound short; he is foisting Morse off on her, after all. “It’s part of an ongoing investigation, we can’t talk about it.”

She purses his lips but doesn’t press, carrying the water past him and setting it down beside the first aid kit. 

“Do you want me to go fetch the key for him?” he asks, hovering pointlessly. “I don’t want to make you late for your work.”

“It’s alright. I can call them. I’ll get the key later. If he’s concussed, someone should be waking him up every few hours to check on him.” She’s kneeling beside Morse now, taking off his tie and checking his pulse. He raises his elbow briefly to glance at her and twitch his lips towards a smile before dropping it back again to shade his eyes. 

Jakes frowns. “Then I’ll take him to hospital; I can’t ask you to –” 

She looks up, surprised. “It’s fine. I was going to be up nursing anyway. Besides, he’s always been a good neighbour to me. I don’t mind.” She wets a cloth in the water, wrings it out and starts dabbing at his forehead. 

The concept of Morse fulfilling the role of a good neighbour is boggling – Jakes briefly tries to imagine him taking out the woman’s rubbish, or carrying up her shopping, and comes up blank. His only idea of Morse as a good neighbour is in the long stretches of silence that must emanate from his flat; the man practically lives at the station. 

Jakes pulls out his wallet and produces his card. He turns it over, and looking around spots a pencil beside the phone. He jots down his number, then holds it up. “This is my card; if anything happens, if he needs something, call me. I’ve put my own number on the back.” He puts it down beside the phone and she nods. “Thank you.”

Jakes sees himself out, leaving the nurse pulling Morse’s damp, dirty socks off. He shuts the door behind him and walks loudly down the hall, then creeps back to stand outside, listening. He can hear the low hum of voices, but they’re too soft to make out the words. After a minute he drifts away, down the stairs of Morse’s grungy building to go home himself. 

And when he gets there, the first thing he’ll do is call the station and have them inform Thursday Morse is staying with his neighbour, so that when the inspector gets no answer on Morse’s line he doesn’t come after Jakes’ head. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Jakes gets a call early the next morning from Thursday; the inspector needs a ride. Morse has been told firmly to take the day off, and evidently for once either Thursday’s tone or his own pain were enough to make him listen. 

Doubtless he, like Jakes, had already checked in with the station regarding the two Beake children and discovered that they had been found by the massive search party in the early hours of the morning, very cold and almost in shock but more or less unharmed. 

Jakes hadn’t bother to check in either of the cars checked out to him yesterday, but on coming home found that someone had picked up the Jag with a spare set of keys; obviously vehicle supply had been tight. Consequently he drives himself to the station in the unmarked car, then picks up a Jag to fetch Thursday. 

At Thursday’s house he doesn’t have a chance to ring the bell; the door opens before he reaches it and Thursday steps out, coat and hat already donned. Jakes blinks, but turns back and retraces his steps to the car, hearing Thursday follow. 

The inside of the car is already toasty; he slides in out of the frosty air and revels in the luxury of the warmth. Thursday follows, raising an eyebrow and unbuttoning his coat; obviously Morse doesn’t keep the car so warm. 

“How’s Morse, sir?” he asks.

“Doing alright. Feet hurting him, and a bit dizzy. Best he stays out of the way until he mends.” Thursday takes a breath, tone turning harder. “As far as last night goes, the story is that Campbell set the dogs on Morse after he announced himself as a police officer. We’ll keep Morse out of the investigation, and away from the interviews. It was dark, and no one saw him close-to; he should be alright.”

“Yes, sir.” Jakes nods, gnawing the inside of his cheek. And then, almost reluctantly: “He thinks Campbell will try again. To kill him, sir. That we won’t be able to prosecute, or at least not to nail a conviction.”

Thursday leans back, tilting his head upwards. “Morse is wrong, sergeant,” he says, with a tired kind of certainty. Jakes glances at him; his eyes are closed, face drawn.

“How do you know, sir?”

“Because Bill Campbell died last night. He was shot resisting arrest while brandishing a firearm.”

Jakes swallows dryly. “But – by who?”

“Three officers. Dutton, Todd, and Thursday.”

There is an entire story behind that fragmented, desiccated sentence. A whole narrative that he is missing, undertones that Thursday is refusing to signal. And probably never will.

Jakes wonders whether he will tell Morse whatever it is he’s not telling him. That he killed the man so that Morse’s secret wouldn’t come out, or to keep his bagman safe from the flames, or so no more children would have to listen to dogs howling in the night. Or maybe none of those things; maybe nothing to do with Thursday at all. 

“You should tell him, sir,” says Jakes, thinking of Morse sicking up by the side of the road. Of the kind of fear that lives in you for a lifetime, buried in your heart like a sickness, never letting you rest. 

Thursday opens his eyes, rolling his head to look at Jakes. “I already have.”

Of course he has. Thursday and Morse operate in their own world, and they only let Jakes in on sufferance. Usually it burns, a slow, steady itch like crumbs caught under his skin. 

Today, just this once, he lets it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jakes references Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories: How the Rhinoceros Got His Skin. 
> 
> Well, we are into the final stretch. NEVERLAND is up next.


	15. LOST BOYS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How hopeless underground falls the remorseful day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of past sexual abuse, violence (as per canon).

It starts with a boy, a body, and a prisoner. 

The boy is Tommy Cork, 11 years old, reported missing from his home by his mother. His father is known to police, and neither Thursday nor Jakes seem surprised at his sudden disappearing act. 

The body is Eric Patterson, a former reporter found dead by the train tracks with a bottle-worth of scotch in his gut and a head wound after failing to turn up for a meeting with the _Mail_ ’s editor. Although always unreliable according to the editor, she’d thought he would be there; he’d said needed to speak to her about something important. 

The prisoner is George Aldridge, escaped from Farnleigh Open Prison and currently missing. No next of kin, no visitors or mail, no leads. He was due out, Morse finds, in less than a month, but chose now of all times to do a bunk.

Morse finds the boy without too much trouble: hiding out in the caravans down near the water treatment plant with a box of puppies forbidden by the Council and a shiner from his old man. 

Patterson’s death is ruled pro-tem as misadventure – hit by a train while drunk. The one tiny wrinkle in his death is the fact that he was speaking with a local alderman, Wintergreen, about some new development before his death. A conversation both Wintergreen and the developer deny. 

For a day, everything looks like it will run to course; just another drunk dead in a ditch. But then Tommy Cork disappears again, and in searching for him, Morse finds his second missing person: George Aldridge. 

He’s been drowned in one of the treatment plant’s run-off pools. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

Farnleigh Open Prison is cold. That’s Morse’s abiding impression of it. It’s a newer building, made of cinderblocks painted a light cream colour, with large barred windows and wide hallways. Supposed to bring light and airiness to the interior, he imagines. But the place feels empty, hopeless, _cold_. 

The warden who shows him to Aldridge’s cell has no interest in helping him. He chases the cell-mate out before Morse can question him, and reveals that the missing inmate’s things have already been cleared out by some nameless County officers. The log-book signatures are illegible, and his memory is either blurred or willfully obfuscated. 

The cell is indeed empty. Like the rest of the prison it is painted cinderblock with an arched, barred window to the outside that lets in as much cold air as it does light. There’s a bunk bed, Aldridge’s bottom bunk made but empty, a desk, and a small table, and otherwise only a few things of the cellmate’s. A playbill has been taped up above the desk; it’s for the Empire Theatre featuring showgirls, magicians and ventriloquists. 

The one piece of information Morse does find he gets from Parker, Aldridge’s cellmate when he catches him alone in one of the empty corridors. 

“Terrible nightmares he had. Woke up most nights screaming. Nervous type.”

“Did you have any idea he was going to escape?” asks Morse.

Parker nods slowly. “I had an odd idea. Since Wednesday.”

“Why was that?”

“He liked me to read him out the personal columns. You know the sort of thing: Second-hand ironing board for sale; Tall dark stranger would like to meet similar.” Parker gives Morse a laughing grin, which Morse ignores. He shrugs. “Anyway, this one I read out, George went white as a sheet. That night, he had the terrors bad. I mean worse than I’d ever seen.”

“Do you remember what it said?”

He tilts his head to the side, as if disappointed by his news. “Just a bunch of letters. A-P-A something.” 

“Parker!” roars the warden, from down the hall; Morse glances up to see the man watching them, eyes hard.

“Running all the way, Mr Wainwright.” He gives Morse a nod and takes off.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Morse is introduced to ACC Deare, who has a familiar look to him that Morse can’t place. And almost immediately pulled into a meeting with the man and Bright that feels like a dressing down. 

“My opposite number at County assures me none of his officers have been to Farnleigh,” says Bright, very calmly. 

“Someone went in, sir, because the place has been cleared.”

The ACC and Bright both come down on him, in an oddly calm tone set by Deare, with insistences that County wasn’t involved. Morse is about to start punching back when Jakes comes in, catches sight of the officers in the room, and makes to back out again. 

“Assistant Chief Constable Deare, DS Jakes,” introduces Bright, before he can. Jakes blinks, but re-enters the room to shake hands.

“Peter, I believe?” says Deare. Jakes gives a silent nod.

“You wanted something?” asks Bright.

“Might have had a sighting of Tommy Cork, sir,” says Jakes.

“A run-away sir, ten years old,” explains Bright. “He may have seen the murder of this abscondee from Farnleigh.”

“The sighting was very sketchy; patrol’s been dispatched; probably nothing,” says Jakes, briefly, hurrying out before questions can be asked of him. 

“If that was all,” says Bright, looking very hard at Morse. “I think we can for the moment lay to rest the suggestion that County was involved in this Farnleigh business.”

“Yes, sir,” says Morse, and takes his leave. His fingers skid on the knob, brass unexpectedly painful. 

The handle has a lingering sear of terror, shame, and hatred. 

\--------------------------------------------------

Aldridge’s file shows that he spent time as a boy in Blenheim Vale, a home for wayward boys closed in the late 50’s. The building, long since closed down and abandoned, is now scheduled to be redeveloped and opened as the home of the new territorial police force for Thames Valley. Developed by Alderman Wintergreen’s friend – Josiah Landesman. 

Two men die within days of each other in suspicious circumstances, each with a connection to Blenheim Vale. It’s hard to wipe it away as a coincidence. 

\----------------------------------------------------

Morse runs out to Blenheim Vale, the afternoon overcast and grey. The building is set far back from the main road on grounds surrounded by a wood, the trees now bare and mournful. It’s a large brick mansion, the design more functional than artistic. 

Inside the rot has gotten in, he can smell it in the winter air. The light as it filters through the dusty boarded-up windows is blue – dim, like looking through a layer of ice. He can hear pigeons roosting somewhere in the dark rooms; god knows what else lives here. 

There’s not much to see. In one of the rooms he finds some piles of old books – the remains of the school’s ledgers and records, either forgotten or abandoned when it closed. He picks up one marked “Punishments” and takes it with him; the rest he leaves mouldering on the floor to rot away with the rest of the place, for a while. 

\----------------------------------------------------

Morse and Thursday regroup and try different tacks, Morse approaching Landesman again about George Aldridge this time, Thursday speaking to Alderman Wintergreen. They’re stonewalled right out of the gate, fully and completely. 

Morse is beginning to think with the power and prestige these men seem to hold, it may not be possible to get answers out of them. 

Then Alderman Wintergreen is found on his office floor with a knife in his gut. 

\------------------------------------------------------

“Good God, so it’s true.” ACC Deare steps into the room and stares down at the corpse. Morse, standing behind Wintergreen’s desk, glances up. Bright has accompanied the ACC, making more than half a dozen policemen in the room. He’s never seen such a turn-out for a corpse, and this not even the mayor. 

“We were at Division when we heard,” explains Bright in a soft voice, as if afraid to wake the man lying on the floor. 

“Sometime between ten o’clock last night and one o’clock this morning,” opines DeBryn, on his knees beside Wintergreen, still in his coat. They all are; no one’s had time to think of comfort. 

“Oh, Jesus,” says a gruff voice, sounding shocked. Morse glances up from the desk to see Jakes recoiling from the sight of the corpse. Morse has never known him to have a hair turned by a corpse, not even the more violent deaths which, in the scheme of things, Wintergreen’s is not.

“You alright?” asks Thursday. 

“Yes, sir.” Jakes nods, swallowing. 

“You don’t look it.”

“Something I ate.” 

“Statements and particulars,” orders Thursday, and they get to work, Morse starting with the Alderman’s secretary Mrs McGarrett. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Morse is returning to the cars with his interviews complete when he hears someone calling him from a darkened room. He steps through the open door and finds ACC Deare standing in some sort of museum or display room, all glass cases filled with awards and silver trophies. Mementos to instill civic pride, he supposes. 

“This assertion of yours that officers may have been to Farnleigh and cleared George Aldridge’s cell. I’ve made some discreet enquiries of my own,” announces Deare, voice quiet but intense. Morse raises his eyebrows. 

“You think there’s something untoward at County?” 

“The rot goes deeper and wider than that, even to your own station. You’ve raised doubts this year yourself, over evidence going missing.” 

“Yes, I have, sir,” he says, surprised Deare knows. “There was a notebook pertaining to the Frida Yelland case, and a masonic ring connected to Blythe Mount, and a photograph tied to the McCormack investigation.”

“Dark forces, Morse, which must be dragged out into the light.” 

“Bad apples,” says Thursday, appearing suddenly and silently from the hallway. Deare glances at him, then nods. 

“The Commissioner has asked me to get to this as a matter of priority, but I need two men I can trust. We’ve a chance here to make Thames Valley something worth fighting for.”

“Sir, do you think it’s related to the death of Alderman Wintergreen, or the disappearance of Tommy Cork?” 

Deare gives him a considering look. “Anything’s possible. Whatever comes your way in the Wintergreen case, you report directly to me. Anytime, night or day.”

Morse takes a deep breath. The idea of corruption within the Force, within the station, isn’t a new one. He’s been aware of it – acutely aware – since he discovered what use Cowley put its basement to a year and a half ago. But the notion that even after that, after the hell Thursday raised, things are still bleak enough that there are officers not only skimming evidence from murder inquiries but actively obstructing them… 

He doesn’t know what to believe anymore.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Morse is going through the Punishment Book and finds George Aldridge, along with five other boys, listed as having committed arson. One of them is a name he recognizes, and going through the paper he finds it again. It was on the playbill in Aldridge’s cell – Benny Topling, a ventriloquist. 

He and Thursday run out to see him in his dressing room at the Empire, a large room in the basement – cream-painted brick, pipes, and radiators; in a way it reminds Morse of Farnleigh prison. 

Topling is a small man with a round face and blond hair; he looks nervy and uncomfortable, and that only deepens when they announce they’re from the police. 

“DI Thursday,” says Thursday, shaking his hand. “DC Morse,” he adds, and Morse follows suit. 

The outside world is ripped away from him with immediacy and violence, a roaring wind whipping up to howl in his ears. Terror pounds through his veins, and not far being it a stinging mix of anguish and helplessness. “Forgot – the car,” he mutters non-sensibly, and hurries out.

He doesn’t know how he finds his way out of the warren of the Empire’s basement but somehow he ends up on the dark street, lined with dark cars. It takes him three tries to find the Jag, his heart twisting painfully at every shadow that flickers in his sight-line, every click of heels. He opens the back door and tumbles in, pulling it shut behind him and crawling across the foot well to hunch behind the driver’s seat with his back to the door, knees up against his chest. 

Morse has no idea how much time passes; all he knows is his heart pounding in his ears, and though he claps his hands over them it does nothing to quiet the sound. The terror won’t fade and it’s all he can do to push it down, keep it from overwhelming him utterly and driving him over the edge of his sanity. 

“Morse?”

His heart nearly bursts; he shoves himself back against the door, handle jamming painfully into his shoulder, until he recognizes Thursday staring at him from across the back of the car. “Alright, lad, you’re alright.” He slides in, hands raised in a reassuring gesture. 

“DeBryn,” chokes out Morse, panting against the fear. Thursday nods. 

“You’ll be fine. You’re alright.” 

With his mind in a haze, he doesn’t realise that Thursday is reaching for him until it’s too late. He feels the beginnings of the bright burst that is the inspector’s anxiety – it’s too much, he’s snapping, twisting, _breaking_ – and then everything goes black.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Morse wakes up in a bed with a headache, feeling cold and achy. He opens his eyes to find himself in an unfamiliar bedroom, with Thursday sitting in a chair beside him. “Hullo,” says the inspector, quietly. Morse blinks.

“Where is this?”

“My house,” says a familiar voice. Morse turns to see DeBryn come into the room, carrying a glass of water. “It seemed best to bring you back here; closer, and without the burden of stairs.” He holds out the glass; Morse sits up slowly and takes it, swallowing a few mouthfuls. 

He’s skidded out. He recognizes the after-effects well enough, and his confused memories are still clear enough to make it fairly apparent what must have occurred. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” asks Thursday, sitting with his hands resting between his knees. He looks tired. 

Morse licks his lips. “I don’t think there’s much to tell, sir. It was him – Ben Topling. There’s something awful in him, in his past. Something he’s done, or something that was done to him. He’s full of terror, consumed by it. And… anguish, and helplessness, as though he’s tried to escape from it and can’t.”

“Killing George Aldridge?” suggests Thursday. Morse shakes his head.

“I’m not saying he didn’t,” he says, “But I think whatever this thing is, it happened much further back in the past. This feels old. Feels as though it’s had a long time to rot and fester. Aldridge’s death might have stirred it up,” he suggests, shrugging. “I don’t know. Did I hurt you?” he asks, softly. 

Thursday shakes his head sadly. “No. It was my fault – should’ve listened to you. I thought –”

“You were trying to help,” says Morse. He sighs, wanting very much to curl up in his own bed – or preferably Monica’s. “Can I go home?”

“You’re better off staying here; you’ll be feeling badly for a few hours, and I don’t fancy taking you up all those stairs again,” says DeBryn, candidly.

“I’ve moved,” says Morse.

“Oh yes. And what storey are you currently on?”

“The third,” he admits. DeBryn gives him an unimpressed look.

“You can stay here tonight. I can run you back to your flat tomorrow morning. Happy?” 

Morse gives him an equally unimpressed look. Thursday rises, stopping to press his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some rest.”

“Yes, sir.” He waits for Thursday to leave, DeBryn ushering him out and then reappearing. “May I use your phone?”

\----------------------------------------------------------

Morse calls Monica to tell her he won’t be home tonight. She sounds worried, more worried still when he confesses he had a turn – pulling an all-nighter seemed a worse excuse. 

“I’ll explain when I see you,” he adds, hoping she might forget and knowing she won’t.

The night he’d been brought back by Jakes from the wild hunt, he had told her his secret. In retrospect, it had been a foolish decision informed not a little by his concussion and the remains of the adrenaline coursing in his system. But in that moment, the idea of being with someone who could harbour hatred for him because of his blood had been unthinkable, unbearable. 

So he’d told her: why he woke when she had bad dreams, why he never wore gloves, why he’d come home that night without his coat or shoes. 

And she had climbed onto the tiny loveseat with him and held him in her arms, pressing her forehead softly to his so he would know how she felt: _tenderness / pity / concern / love._

The next afternoon, when he had gotten over the worst of the concussion, she had taken him out and helped him buy a new coat. And, while they were out, an early Christmas present: a new scarf. 

“I had been thinking of a pair of gloves,” she had said, smiling as she draped it over his neck. “But I suppose you would prefer this.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

Thursday tells him the next morning that Topling had advised speaking with Dr Fairbridge, former physician to Blenheim Vale. They run over and find not just the doctor but also Angela McGarrett – Alderman Wintergreen’s secretary. 

Fairbridge remembers nothing of Aldridge, or of Topling for that matter. But Angela seems to, easily. She digs out a photograph for them of herself and what looks like a classful of the boys, several of their names on the back. They used to live just beside the school, boys stopping by to play, she says, smiling. But when Morse takes the photograph he feels nothing on it at all – not fondness or happiness or even regret. Simply nothing.

\---------------------------------------------------------

The _Mail_ digs out the letter which placed the advertisement that apparently sent George Aldridge over the wire: A.P.A.D * A41. The envelope is franked, enabling him to trace it back to a firm of lawyers in town. The clerk who handles the franking is one Nicholas Myers, another of the punishment boys and in the front row of Angela McGarrett’s photo. 

“What happened at Blenheim Vale?” asks Morse. For a long minute the clerk sits in silence. And then the story comes out. 

There was a gang of lads, as such places tend to create. Six or seven of them, thrust together by the hard conditions and loneliness. Nicholas, George, Benny, Ed, Henry, and the two Petes – Big Pete, Little Pete. And then, when the new Governor came along, by much, much worse. 

“We had to meet him in the car down the end of the lane. He drove us somewhere. Guest house, hotel, wherever it was. Things happened there. Awful, terrible things.” Myers looks at Morse, giving a dry, humourless smile. “We paid him back, though.”

The arson – the new Governor’s car. And afterwards the gang’s leader, Peter Williams, disappeared.

“You didn’t try to find him?” asks Morse.

“Of course we did. After we left we all tried; nothing, no record. George went to the police, spilled the whole story. They told him not to tell lies. After that, he started getting into real trouble. But we made a vow. Ever any of us was ever in trouble, we’d place an ad in the paper and whoever could was honour-bound to attend a pow-wow in the next seven days.”

“So why did you place the ad now?”

Patterson. The reporter. Somehow, he’d come nosing around and put the wind up Myers. Myers hadn’t talked, but it hadn’t saved Patterson. Or Aldridge.

“One more thing. This new Governor. What was his name?”

“Wintergreen.”

\------------------------------------------------------

Morse talks to Wintergreen’s wife who vehemently denies not only knowledge of her husband’s activities, but the activities themselves. It takes only an hour before he’s pulled in front of Bright to deal with the aftermath of the accusation. No further approaches are to be made to Mrs Wintergreen, nothing is to be found in the accusations of the men against Wintergreen. It was investigated in the ‘50s by Deare and found clean. 

“They’re not lying,” Morse tells Thursday, thinking of Topling’s handshake. The inspector nods. 

“Better run it past Deare, see if it fits with anything he knows.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

Morse meets Deare in his car in an empty car park, explains what he’s found as the windscreen ices up. Deare frowns as Morse explains the situation, growing more and more grave. When Morse finishes he sighs, looking to Morse with regret in his eyes. 

“Would they talk now? Go on record? I’d like to speak with them, rectify my mistake. With their testimony, we could nail who knows how many of the bastards.”

Morse bites his lip, considering. Certainly they haven’t been willing in the past, but silence has brought them nothing but fear and broken hopes until now. “Well, I don’t know. I can ask.”

Deare nods gratefully. “If you could. Don’t lose heart; we’re close. The net’s tightening.”

It’s only later Morse realises he’s misplaced his scarf.

\------------------------------------------------------

It’s past dinner time when Morse arrives at Thursday’s, taking only a moment to enjoy the warmth and comfort of his inspector’s home. Thursday brings him into the dining room and they sit, Morse laying out his version of events. 

Patterson meets some past victim of Wintergreen or perhaps Landesman, and gets enough of the story from him to come to Oxford with it and look up Myers. Myers won’t talk, but as soon as Patterson leaves he puts out the distress signal. Aldridge goes over the wall at Farnleigh the same day that Patterson goes to Wintergreen and Landesman to talk to them about the accusations, and they draw a correlation where there is none and take steps to silence both Patterson and Aldridge. 

“But why kill Wintergreen?” asks Thursday, frowning around his pipe. 

Strange shows up unexpectedly at that moment, interrupting with the news that Tommy Cork was spotted in a car – one of the unmarked cars used by County. Only it hasn’t been checked out to anyone. 

“Better get onto Deare,” says Thursday. Morse nods and takes his leave, heading back to the station to follow up. 

\------------------------------------------------------

Deare sends him out to an empty lot to pick up the boy; County has him but he’ll only come across to Morse. He brings a copy of an old paper with him, just turned up by the _Mail_ ’s editor and reads it while he’s waiting. 

It’s the inquest into the death of one of the boys in Aldridge and Myers’ gang; committed suicide a few years after he left Blenheim Vale. The investigating officers were Deare and Chard. 

Morse looks up, and movement in the rear-view mirror catches his eye. Light glancing off a gun barrel.

He ducks at nearly the same moment the back windscreen shatters, throwing the car into reverse and stomping on the throttle. He feels the thump of the Jag’s back bumper catch someone, then spins the car around and jams it up into first and immediately second, grinding the gears as he flies out of the lot, more bullets striking the car. 

Deare. It was Deare all along, playing with him like a puppet. He grits his teeth and pushes the throttle to the floor, Jag roaring through the silent streets. 

\---------------------------------------------------

He gets back to the station to find it curiously empty. Only Strange, standing by his desk, looking oddly stiff. “You’ve had some calls,” he says. “From a Miss Hicks? She wants you to call her back pronto,” he says, glancing at Morse’s desk.

Morse ignores it – no time for that now. “Where’s Thursday?” he demands, nearly vibrating with adrenaline.

“What d’you mean? He left a message in the duty log saying he was meeting you at Blenheim Vale.”

His mind slots it all together lightning-fast: Deare’s sent Thursday to Blenheim Vale alone. Deare is going to kill Thursday, just as he tried to kill Morse. Thursday has no idea it’s Deare.

Morse groans, trying to marshal his panicked thoughts. “I need you to get every man you can trust over there now. City boys only. Understand?”

And Strange, for once in his life, straightens his shoulders and stares Morse down. “No can do, matey. Orders.”

Morse stares as if struck. “Orders? What orders? From where?”

“We’ve been told if anything comes through from out that way, we’re not to respond. Some County operation; come from ACC Deare.” 

“I see.” He unfolds the paper and makes to hand it to Strange. Strange doesn’t take it. He slams it down on the desk between them, Jakes’ empty desk. “It _is_ Deare, you fool. If you do nothing else, find Bright and tell him Thursday’s in trouble.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

He finds Jakes in the closest pub, fortunate, as he has no time for pub trawling. The sergeant is seated in a dark corner behind a half-empty stein, and he looks pissed. “I need your help: Thursday’s out at Blenheim Vale. Come on.” Morse half turns before he notices Jakes hasn’t followed him.

“Blenheim Vale? I can’t.” Jakes shakes his head sharply. 

Morse turns back slowly as the past several days comes together for him, tiny puzzle pieces he hadn’t really noticed himself collecting at the time assembling. “Little Pete,” he says, and the corners of Jakes’ eyes tighten. “Were you there?” he asks, sitting down.

“To some of us bastards, it’s more than just a name.” He stares up at Morse with a wide, haunted look that Morse has never seen in him before, never imagined seeing in him. “You don’t think about something for long enough you think you’ve forgotten. Then one day something comes along.”

“Deare,” says Morse.

“There were four of them. Wintergreen, Landesman, Deare, and Doctor Fairbridge.”

“Fairbridge?” 

“He knew about it and did nothing to stop it.” Jakes gives another spasmodic shake of his head. “But it was Deare – it was Deare that started it, I think. Brought Wintergreen and Landesman in, maybe.”

Morse frowns. “Why?”

Jakes wipes the side of his face with a stiff hand; he’s sweating profusely, skin wet with it. His wide, staring eyes never leave Morse’s face. “You really want to know?” he asks hoarsely, fingers twitching on the table. 

He hears something personal in Jakes’ tone that sends a shiver down his spine, tells him that beyond a doubt he that he doesn’t, but he has no choice. He needs to know – Thursday needs to know, and they’re very short on time. So he nods. Jakes’ mouth turns in a long, slow scowl. 

“He was looking for something. One of you. That’s why it happened – all of it.”

Morse stares, feeling the weight of Jakes’ gaze – and, not a little, of his anger. He checks behind him and, finding no one nearby, turns back to Jakes. “An empath?” he asks, quietly. 

Jakes shakes his head with a broken motion. “No. Something _special_ ,” he spits out. “A seer. I think somehow he thought – if he had enough kids, if he hurt enough of us… sooner or later he would find one who saw it coming.” Jakes swallows convulsively. “Do you _know_ how _many_ –” he breaks off, pulling his hands through his hair as his shoulders start to shake. “We were just the right age, couldn’t have hid it. But there was nothing to find – and once he’d open the floodgates on all their perversions, there was no way to close them. Not that he wanted to.”

Morse feels sick. “Angela,” he asks, because he has to. “Did she have an idea?”

Jakes pulls himself together. “More than an idea, I think. Some of them, wasn’t just lads, you just had to be young.” He takes a slow breath, eyes focused on the past. “They wanted a name. For whoever burnt out Wintergreen’s car. They knew who it was, but they wanted a name.” He’s breathing hard now, trapped in his memories, flinching with the intensity as they wash over him. “So I told ‘em,” he chokes out wretchedly. 

Morse stands. “Look – we have a chance to bury them, all of them. Come on.”

Jakes gets up, and then the table tips as his legs give out, glass falling on the floor and shattering. “I can’t, I can’t – I’m sorry, I can’t.”

He doesn’t have time – Thursday doesn’t have time. Morse tears himself away; turns and leaves. 

\--------------------------------------------------

The abandoned boy’s home is dark, the gravel drive deserted. Morse stops in front and hurries in through the front door and around to the front room – where Thursday is waiting with a gun pointed at his head. 

The inspector jerks it up, letting out a hard breath as Morse stares. “That could have been nasty.”

The room is cold around them, smelling of mildew and night air. Everything is dark, the only light coming from the construction site’s safety lamps shining in outside. 

“Sir, it’s a set-up,” warns Morse, urgently. 

“I figured as much,” says Thursday, unsurprised. Thus the gun. Morse forces himself to take a breath, calm down. 

“But you came anyway.” 

“It’s always been about the boy. If there was any chance, however small…” Thursday shrugs. “Who are we expecting, then?”

“It’s Deare, sir. He arranged a small reception for me, had Chard try to kill me.”

Thursday nods slowly. “The one thing I can’t work out is why they killed Wintergreen.”

“They didn’t. It was someone else.” He pieced it together on the way here, motive, means, and opportunity. All explained by Jakes, although he didn’t know it. “Wintergreen’s appetites extended beyond just the boys at Blenheim Vale. The mind plays tricks. Perhaps Angela told herself it was all in her imagination; something I’m sure her father encouraged in her.” Morse grimaces. All this death and pain and horror, so much evil. _The only monsters I know are men_ , Jakes had said. He should have seen it earlier. 

This place should be burned to the ground, razed and the site swept clean. There are no revenants here, not even the ghosts of painful memories – the regime of violence and violation didn’t take go on here, or not for long enough to stamp its mark into the building’s stones. But it’s nothing more than a cancer all the same, malignant and festering in the minds of those who lived here. 

Morse shivers in the cold room, looking around with sad, helpless loss. There is next to nothing he can do now about any of it – nothing except try to catch Deare and Landesman, seventeen years too late. 

And just the two of them to do it, all alone in the darkness. How hopeless underground falls the remorseful day.

“You know there’s no cavalry’s not coming. Still time. I won’t think the less,” says Thursday, gently.

Morse just shakes his head. Thursday nods. “To the end, then.”

“To the end.”

Outside, a car pulls up. Thursday hurries to the doorway, gun in his hand. And a shot rings out.

Thursday falls, gasping, to the floor. 

Morse turns to see Deare enter from a second door, gun in hand. “The early bird,” announces Deare, pleasantly. 

A red wave of rage rushes through him, stronger than any he’s ever known. It drives through him with staggering speed, so hot he can feel his temperature rising with it, every ounce of his being alight with fury. It pours out as he faces Deare so that he feels his lungs can’t contain it, that he’ll be torn to pieces by the blistering heat. “You bastard!” he shouts, his voice rough and jagged. “You _bastard_!” He takes a step forward and stops as Deare waves the pistol. 

“ _Names_ ,” snaps Deare. And then, in his usual calm voice. “No bonne mot, no apposite, Augustin valedictory? I expected more of you. So very much more.” 

Morse stares, struck dumb by the firestorm of his anger. 

“I’ve had my eye on you for quite some time, you know. So promising, so _bright_. And of course, it was clear to anyone with a brain that it was more than smarts that was solving your cases. I really hoped after all this time, I might finally have found what I was looking for,” says Deare, sounding almost disappointed.

“You thought I was a seer,” realises Morse, astounded. “And you wanted to what – make me your pet? Keep me on a lead?” His stomach turns at the thought of what Deare might have had planned for the seer he was searching for at Blenheim Vale – is, apparently, still searching for. 

“Do you have any idea what a man can accomplish with a seer behind him? They are worth more than their weight in gold. They can be trained with the right … incentives. And then with their insight, your wishes are yours to grasp.”

“And that’s worth torturing dozens of boys?” demands Morse, appalled.

“I invite you to prove it. I can tell you now: you never will. Just as you failed to prove yourself worthy in the tests set for you.”

Morse frowns. _You’ve raised doubts this year yourself, over evidence going missing._ How had Deare known about his concerns – more to the point, why had he cared? “The missing evidence; it was you. You were… _testing_ me?” 

Deare shrugs. “So much work, and for nothing but a garden variety empath. Oh let’s not pretend it’s such a secret; it’s all over your files. How many cases have you solved by reading, and then tried to cover those leaps up post-facto? Your police-work is your weak point, Morse, and that includes your paper-work. But the fact that you put yourself into that ridiculous hunt last month was an obvious disqualifier – no seer would ever expose themselves to that.” He raises the gun. “Don’t worry; I’ll ensure your secret is kept. A bullet to the brain is a remarkably sound mechanism.” 

“You’re mad; you can’t think you’ll get away with this.”

“I already have. History is written by the victors, Morse. I have always been one.” He takes aim, and Morse tenses. 

A second shot rings out; Morse cries out involuntarily, flinching. Deare collapses, falling forward. From the darkness behind him comes Angela McGarrett, carrying a revolver and looking remarkably wooden. 

He stares at her for a moment, but when it becomes clear she has no intention of shooting him he hurries over to Thursday, still gasping on the floor. Morse turns him onto his back and pulls his coat away to find a growing bloodstain on his chest centered on the left just below his heart. Morse pushes away his jacket and presses his hands down over the wound, shivering at the feel of hot blood on his hands. “Stay with me, sir. Stay with me, sir. Sir!” He can feel Thursday’s heartbeat, slow and struggling. Feel him fighting to draw in breath. “Stay with me!” 

“It wasn’t dreams,” says Angela, from behind him. He looks around to see her staring down at Deare’s corpse. “It was memories. My own father.” She shakes her head slowly, as though freeing herself from a veil. “No more dreams. No more lost boys.” She raises the gun to her head.

“NO!”

The revolver fires with a resounding thunderclap, and her body falls to the floor. Morse closes his eyes, curling in closer around Thursday, trying to keep up the pressure on his chest through his tears. “Stay with me,” he chokes out. _Please._

\------------------------------------------------------

They take Thursday away in an ambulance, blankets wrapped tight around him against the night air. His face is an ugly grey colour, his breathing and heartbeat weak. Morse watches while Thursday’s blood dries on his hands, standing on the stoop of Blenheim Vale.

Strange finds Tommy Cork in one of the upstairs rooms and is dispatched to take the boy home; to a better fate, they can only hope. 

He’s only been there for a minute when a County car pulls up, a couple of plain-clothes men stepping out. They march right up to him without asking for instructions and put him under arrest for the murder of Chief Constable Standish. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

Morse is taken to Kidlington station, where he spends the night being interrogated by several detectives. During the course of the interrogations he discovers that Standish was murdered sometime in the evening, strangled apparently with Morse’s missing scarf. As the night wears on Deare, Dr Fairbridge and Angela McGarrett are added onto the charges, until the interrogations becomes a barrage of allegations that make no sense, accusations without basis. 

He’s been there for more than twelve hours without a break when the door opens to admit a new figure with a familiar drawl. Morse looks up tiredly, and feels his face fall. 

“Well. Always knew you’d come to no good, me,” says DS Lott. “Plain as plain, the day we first dug you out of that dirty little rite.”

“What do you want?” grits out Morse.

“You don’t ask the questions anymore, my posh lad. You answer them, or you answer for it.”

Morse straightens his spine slightly, giving Lott a cold look. “I was not involved in any of the deaths with which you have charged me. I was not present during Chief Constable Standish’s death – I was being assaulted by members of the Oxford Police under the orders of ACC Deare. Deare called Thursday and myself to Blenheim Vale intending to dispose of us before we could reveal his part in the gross abuses at the home in the past. But he was killed by Angela McGarrett, a former victim of his, and she took her own life as well as that of her father who was also complicit in her abuse.”

“Very neat,” compliments Lott. “But no one will ever believe ACC Deare was involved in a conspiracy to interfere with a host of boys and then cover it up with the murder of his superior and two other detectives. That’s a fairy tale, my son, plain and simple. But a mad constable – that’s much more the ticket. Everyone knows, Morse, that you’re more than a little odd. And we all know how much you hate to lose. How far would you go to find justice?”

He nods to Morse’s arms, checked earlier in the evening in the course of booking him by a gaggle of suspicious officers. “The police surgeon obliged. 'Let justice be done, may the heavens fall.'”

Morse feels his stomach turn. “All the evidence is on my side,” he says. 

Lott raises his eyebrows. “Is it? I haven’t seen it. But then, you know how it is. Sometimes, things go missing.”

Morse stands, the last dregs of his anger coursing through him. Behind him, the constable keeping watch claps a heavy hand on his shoulder and forces him back down into the chair. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

They keep him at the station for another day, session after session of interrogation producing no new answers from him. He repeats the evidence they need to look for – the bullet holes in his Jag, the fingerprints on Deare and Angela’s guns, Deare’s orders for no Oxford response to any calls from Blenheim Vale, the witnesses to corroborate his timeline of events. But nothing seems to move, and at the end of the second day in some strange twist of irony he’s transferred for holding to Farnleigh Open Prison. 

No one will tell him how Thursday is; none of the Kiddlington detectives seem to think he deserves to know and the prison officers don’t have any reason to do him the favour of finding out. 

No one from Cowley has been to see him: it’s as though he’s been declared off-limits, in quarantine. One bad apple spoils the bunch, after all. 

\------------------------------------------------------

Given that he’s a police officer the warden does go make the marginal effort of putting him in a cell on his own. He spends the majority of his time alone in it, venturing out no more than necessary, and is not disturbed except by detectives with the same pointless questions. 

He’s woken from a fitful sleep by a heavy metallic clang; to his sleeping brain it sounds like gunfire ricocheting off steel and he jerks up with his heart hammering in his ears.

It’s early, or maybe still late – it’s dark outside his window. The clang was the sound of his heavy metal door being opened. Two men stand in the darkness beyond, lit only by safety lamps. One is tall, his shoulders artificially sharpened by a uniform jacket, a cap sitting on his head. Beside him is a shorter man standing with a stoop, shoulders rounded by age, the light picking up on his silver-blond hair. Lott. 

Morse swings his stocking feet slowly over the edge of the bunk but doesn’t get out. The guard, apparently satisfied seeing him awake, fades off into the shadows, leaving them alone. As alone as it’s possible to be surrounded by 150 sleeping men. 

“What, no hullo? I come all this way out of my nice warm bed to do you a favour, and that’s what I get?” says Lott, with false hurt.

“What favour?” rasps Morse, throat rough from the cold air.

“Brought you some news. You’re soon to be sole eye witness to the ACC’s death. Whether that’s in your favour or not…” Lott shrugs. 

Morse is already on his feet, crossing the frigid flagstones. “What d’you mean?”

“Had a call from the hospital. They’re calling time on the Guv’nor. This time tomorrow, Cowley starts looking for a new DI.”

Morse is very familiar with shock. He’s been dropped in violently, and lowered in gently. He’s even slipped in without noticing, coming to realise it only hours later. He feels it trying to seep in now, cover him in its icy film and smother him. He tears it away forcefully; he will not allow it in. Not now. Morse steps up to the doorway, staring at Lott in the low light. 

“You have to let me see him. Please.”

Lott produces a cigarette from somewhere, cups his hands around it and lights it, watching Morse the whole time. Only when it’s drawing does he answer. One word, dripping with smugness and self-satisfaction. “No.”

Morse digs his fingers into his palms, scrabbling for patience, ideas. “Then give me a phone call. I need to speak to DCS Bright –”

Lott takes the cigarette from his lips and blows a cloud of smoke in Morse’s face. “No.”

Morse surges forward, reaching for Lott. The sergeant nips back, and in his place the guard appears from behind the wall and grabs Morse, restraining him with strong arms while Morse struggles.

“There now, that’s an end to your visitors,” comments Lott, watching from a few feet back while the guard fights to push him back into his cell.

“You bastard Lott, I’ll –”

“But,” continues Lott, “There is a way for you to see dear old Fred before they bury him.”

Morse stops fighting, breathing hard. “How?”

“Sign a full confession. The murders of Standish and Deare. I’ll even go easy on you and leave Fairbridge and McGarrett off as a family affair. Do that, now, and I’ll take you to see him myself before the ink’s dry. Otherwise you’ll be lucky if they let you out on a compassionate pass to attend his funeral – and Win Thursday’ll be lucky too, seeing as no one else’ll be there.”

Anger subsumes him, searing in with his breath and through his veins, burning him down to his palms, knuckles, nails. The guard knees him in the gut and he goes down hard, gasping. “Go to hell,” he snarls through the hatred, through the pain. “You can go to hell you dirty, lying, traitorous son of a bitch.” 

Lott regards him calmly. “You’ll be heading there before me, my son. Killed two coppers, shot one. Maybe you’ll be seeing Fred sooner than you thought.” He takes the cigarette, flicks the butt at Morse’s face, and is gone.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Morse crawls back into his bunk and lies there, staring at the naked springs above while his world tears itself to pieces. His mind is feverish, a whirlwind of intensely vivid memories that drive knives into his heart. 

_This is your_ life _, and I will always look out for it._

_The only monsters I know are men._

_I hadn’t realised until then just how frightening love is._

_They buried Mickey Carter’s empty casket along with his good name._

_I lost both my parents and there was nothing I could do for them. I won’t let that happen to yours – ever._

_To the end, then._

For some reason he can picture the scene in the Radcliffe so clearly it cuts: the faint antiseptic smell of the hospital, the soft beeping of machines, the shuffle of the nurses’ starched uniforms. Fred Thursday lying unconscious in a narrow bed, full of pipes and needles, face drawn and bloodless. Win stiff beside him, and the two children close by her. 

Thursday should never have been at Blenheim Vale – never should have fallen. It was Morse Deare wanted, him the madman had been stalking all along. Even with Deare playing him like a fiddle he had seen none of it; worse, he hadn’t had Thursday’s back. And now County, and perhaps even Cowley, will bury Fred Thursday along with his good name. 

No. Morse digs his fingernails into his palms until they bleed, and still doesn’t stop. Tries to focus on the physical pain over his own anguish: it’s more immediate, sharper, even if it’s nowhere as deep. 

With his mind on it, he can think, at least. Can put into thoughts what his heart already knows. He won’t allow this to happen. Can’t. He will not let Thursday die in disgrace for Morse’s mistake – for anything. All that’s left is to see how the way forward. 

By the time the sun rises to shine on the frost ferns etched on the window, Morse is sitting stiffly on his bunk, waiting. He doesn’t have much time. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

Morse is lucky. He has intelligence and foresight. More than that, though, he has the schematic of the prison in his head and the details of Aldridge’s case. It’s a simple matter to get himself assigned to the outdoor detail: there’s a new layer of snow on the ground and no one wants to be out working in it. 

It’s not hard to linger on the job, and just as easy to lag behind at the end of the day when the rest of the men are hurrying back inside to the relative warmth and amusements of the cellblock. 

He follows the sinking sun and cuts across the snowy field east towards the fence. It’s only hip-height, easily scaled even without proper boots or gloves. He tumbles down on the other side but picks himself up easily and starts to run. 

The snow is dangerous, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He gets out of the fields as soon as he can, finding a road and erasing his footmarks in the slush of vehicle transit. 

It’s too far to walk from Farnleigh, and he has no money. Once he gets out of the countryside he starts ducking into phone booths and shop doorways looking for change. It takes him nearly an hour to scrounge up the three pence for a bus ticket, and then another half hour to find a bus stop for his line. 

On the bus Morse sits in the back corner, looking out the window with his hand raised against his face as though rubbing away a headache. The bus is mostly empty, not many people heading in his direction. There are likely reports of his escape out already, but probably not to public transport yet. They’ll be blocking the roads starting in the direction of the Radcliffe, he imagines. Let them. 

He’s the only one to get off at his stop, a lone man in the middle of nowhere wearing just a flannel jacket and pullover in the middle of winter. It’s suspicious, and it will probably be remembered, but that doesn’t matter either. 

The snow lying on the fields here is fresh, untouched. His feet sink in deeply as he walks, leaving his footprints behind: a long solitary trail in the fading light. He left no note, no statement behind him in his cell; he couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound needlessly melodramatic. His footprints will speak for him, for a little while.

As the sun falls below the ground, Morse walks into the Wychwood. He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse references A.E. Housman's poem, which I have seen appended to "May" but also on its own without a title in More Poems.
> 
> Capital Punishment was in fact stricken down in Britain in 1965; I am pushing it out by a year and therefore creating a further element of AU. This fic exists in the legal period between 1957-65 where the death sentence could only be given for crimes committed: in the course or furtherance of theft; by shooting or causing an explosion; while resisting arrest or during an escape; of a police officer; of a prison officer by a prisoner; the second of two murders committed on different occasions (both in Great Britain). Morse being accused of three of these things he would certainly be eligible for the death sentence.


	16. the fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.
> 
> This chapter has been split in 2 due to length.

Fred Thursday wakes up to find Win staring down at him, her hazel eyes wide. And then, a moment later, they’re filled with tears. 

The mask on his face, the beige curtains printed with sigils, and the white sheets tell him he’s in hospital. The heaviness of his body and the dull ache in his chest despite the complex mix of IV bags on his left tell him he’s hurt badly. 

“What happened?” he tries to ask through the mask. He never really gets a satisfactory answer; the next minute Win is pressing kisses to his cheek, her own wet with tears, and Joan and Sam have appeared from somewhere to press in against his other side. 

At some point a nurse appears, then another nurse, and then a doctor. They take vitals, then more vitals, then wheel him out for a round of x-rays. Eventually after several hours a doctor – not the original one – appears to tell him he seems to be well on the road to recovery, and can expect a good prognosis. 

There’s more tears from Win and Joan, though this time they try to hide them, and even red eyes from Sam. Thursday, feeling very lost and struggling to regain his footing in the here and now, berates them for lack of faith and sends them home to get some sleep – they look as though they’ve been awake for days on end. 

What makes the whole thing all the more strange is the PC standing unobtrusively in the corner, doing his best to remain out of Thursday’s line of vision.

\--------------------------------------------------------

He’s not supposed to be alive. No one’s said it, no one will, but it’s not difficult to piece together. The staff are all baffled at his recovery, every test they run only increasing their confusion. Win and the kids are acting as though nothing happened, but they’ve never been good liars and they’ve thrown themselves in the deep end in this attempt. 

But there’s something odder still going on, some deeper conspiracy afoot, and everyone is in on it. No one will give him a satisfactory answer about two things: the PC, or Morse. 

Bright comes to see him the afternoon he wakes up, hat in hand and treading quietly through the ward. He wears the customary trepidation of those deeply uncomfortable with hospital visits, shooting little darting glances to the left and right as though assessing the ward for threats. 

“Am I under arrest, sir?” Thursday asks, straight out, when the man sits down. Bright stiffens, looking a little more shocked than is believable. 

“No – no. Why would you think so?”

“Something to do with the bobby hanging around in the corner,” says Thursday grimly. Bright glances over his shoulder.

“He is here at County’s request. As you are still a person of interest in the deaths of Chief Constable Standish, ACC Deare, Mrs McGarrett and Dr Fairbridge, they asked that a man be left.”

Thursday stares. “Four deaths,” he says, in quiet shock. “How – who?” 

Deare was the obvious answer, but Deare is one of the dead. 

“The investigation is ongoing, and as you are still recovering I do not wish to press you.” Bright sounds indecisive, waiting to be pressured into talking.

“I’m fine, sir. Doctors say I can be released in a few days. Mending fast.”

Bright raises his eyebrows. “Indeed. In that case, I can tell you that although the investigation currently rests with County two lines of inquiry have been raised. One purports that Morse was responsible for all of the murders. The other –” continues Bright, holding up a hand to speak over Thursday’s protest, “suggests that ACC Deare may have murdered the Chief Constable, and that Angela McGarrett killed her father and Deare before taking her own life. Although the Morse theory was favoured at the beginning of the investigation further evidence and factors of timing and access are now suggesting the latter theory to be the more probable.”

“What does Morse say?” asks Thursday.

“He proposed the Deare-McGarrett theory, and suggested the evidence for it. As he was until then the main suspect he is of course considered biased.”

Thursday frowns, trying to pull himself up and only managing to raise his head. “Sir, he’s right. Deare set us up the whole way – told us he wanted us to investigate the Aldridge case and report directly to him on it. He tried to have Morse killed earlier that night, then sent for both Morse and myself meaning to kill us at Blenheim Vale.”

“Where he shot you.”

“He must’ve done, but I don’t remember it.” The only thing he remembers is Morse’s voice, distant, scared. 

Bright nodded. “As I have said, the investigation currently lies with County. However I believe the acting Chief Constable is beginning to come to the conclusion that it would sit better with us. Either way, the truth will out Thursday, you may rest assured.”

“I’d like to speak to Morse, sir.”

Bright’s face freezes momentarily, then softens. “I’m sure. It can’t be arranged right now, but once the case is handed over to us we will manage it post haste.” 

“Where is he?”

“He was sent to Farnleigh.”

Thursday’s grip on the sheets tightens, cotton stretched to its limits. “Farnleigh! Then get him out – he’s innocent, there’s no cause for –”

“He will be released as soon as possible,” cuts in Bright, sharply, voice suddenly tending towards shrill. “Right now, there is nothing we can do for him.”

“But –”

“Thank you, Thursday.” Bright stands, and leaves. 

\---------------------------------------------------

That afternoon, Thursday asks Win to bring him a piece of paper and a pen.

“What for?” she asks, surprised.

“Need to write a letter. To Morse – poor lad’s in Farnleigh.”

He’s looking past her at the clock, but sees her jaw tense all the same. She fetches him the pen and paper and watches him write the note. It’s short; he’s easily tired, and writing is much more difficult than he would have imagined. When he’s done he gives it to her. “Can you address it and post it?”

He sees her hesitate, then nod and take it. “Of course. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to get it.”

\----------------------------------------------------

Strange stops by very briefly, face unnaturally pale and shot through with fear. He says nothing of his own accord, only tells Thursday that County has requested an interview but that Bright has pushed it off until after Thursday is released from hospital. 

“I want you to do something,” Thursday tells him. Strange nods, very solicitous.

“Of course, sir – anything.”

“Go to Morse’s flat and clear out whatever food’s there; it’ll’ve gone off by now. He hardly needs to worry about that on top of the rest of his troubles.” Not that he can much imagine Morse giving a thought to the cleanliness of his flat, especially in the chokey. 

The look of keen, kind inquisitiveness vanishes, replaced by the same fear from before. Strange swallows and nods. “Of course, sir.”

“You can get a key from Mrs Thursday. Mind you return it.”

“Yes, sir.” Strange gives a brief, spastic wave and hurries out; Thursday stares after him. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

DeBryn comes up to see him the next day, dressed in his usual tweed and bow-tie. Thursday fills the pathologist in on the investigation, although DeBryn seems curiously informed as it is. After he reaches the end of his tale DeBryn finishes it off for him.

“Yes, well, I understand back-up did arrive, but too late. They found you, badly injured, as well as Deare and Mrs McGarrett, dead. Morse was the only conscious survivor, and Deare had already put out a bulletin against him for the murder of Standish. They arrested him moments after you were taken away in the ambulance.”

Thursday shakes his head. “I’ve written to him, not that it will be much comfort. Bright won’t dig him out.”

DeBryn gives him the same blank look as Bright and Win. And Thursday, tired of being kept in the dark, tired of whatever it is that everyone knows but him, snaps. 

“What? What is it you aren’t telling me? All of you – keeping this dirty little secret. Why is that PC really here? To keep me from escaping? It’s ridiculous; the nurse could trip me with my own IV pole. And whenever I mention Morse you all look as though someone’s walked over your graves. _Tell me._ ” 

DeBryn runs his teeth over his bottom lip, and then slowly takes off his glasses and starts to clean them with his handkerchief. “The police constable is here looking for Morse, Inspector. County is hoping he’ll turn up here. He won’t, of course; that’s foolishness. But what more can you expect from fools?”

Thursday feels himself growing cold. “What do you mean turn up? Have they lost him?”

“In a matter of speaking. Morse escaped from Farnleigh two nights ago. According to County, he hasn’t been seen since.”

Thursday doesn’t miss the jab. “And according to our lot?”

DeBryn dons his glasses slowly, giving Thursday a long, sad stare. “When we heard of your … surprising recovery, we focused our search in a different direction. A driver thinks Morse took his bus the evening of the break-out headed from the direction of Farnleigh towards Bladon. Sergeant Jakes and I drove out there. There were new footprints in the snow heading into the Wychwood. There were none coming out.”

Thursday feels his bones icing over, cold spreading from the inside out. “He wouldn’t,” he whispers, gruffly.

“I wish I could believe that, truly,” says DeBryn. “But Morse has never failed to show that there are some things he values above his life.”

“Or his heart? His soul?” grits out Thursday, still too frozen for anger to really have penetrated. 

DeBryn gives a small helpless shrug. “Only he knows what deal he made, if indeed he made one.”

Thursday just stares at him, silent and grim, until DeBryn sighs and slips out.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Thursday’s health continues to improve, his strength and stamina growing daily. But as his strength increases his outlook blackens. With each passing day no news comes of Morse, nothing on any of County or Cowley’s searches. 

Thursday is discharged a week after regaining consciousness, on a frosty day in mid-December. Win comes to take him home in a cab, Joan at work and Sam at school. As they drive home through the streets all he sees is barren trees and grey skies; a world cold and dead.

For some reason, he has a very vivid image in his mind of Jakes and DeBryn standing in the frozen snow at the shadowed eaves of the Wychwood, staring in silence at the trail of footprints leading inside. Somewhere in that darkness, Morse is lying dead because of him. He’s become certain of it, an icy certainty that freezes his bones to the marrow. If Morse weren’t, he would have shown up by now. There’s no other explanation – not for Morse’s escape, or Thursday’s recovery. He’s dead, and God only knows what creatures are feeding on his corpse. 

Thursday shivers in the back of the cab, Win tutting in concern and pulling his coat more tightly about his shoulders. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

His doctors have told him he’ll need a week of bed rest and gradual exercise to return to even to easy everyday tasks, and beyond that a further two weeks’ leave. Thursday, never one to be chained to a bed, makes Sam help him down to the sofa every morning; from there he can slowly work to increase his independence with forays to the kitchen and dining room. 

Between the war and work, Thursday has been injured more times than he can readily count, seriously injured twice before now. He’s used to the frustration, the despondency, the way the days seem to crawl by leaving him nothing to do but stew over the life he isn’t able to live right now. 

This time, things are different. He should be chomping at the bit to get back to the case, to prove Morse’s innocence once and for all, and to expose Deare and his sick compatriots for the evil bastards they were. But for some reason, he isn’t. Doesn’t feel wound up, or sick with tension and frustration. 

Truthfully, he doesn’t feel much of anything except anger and despair. It was hard enough dragging himself back out of the deep black hole of depression and self-hatred after Mickey Carter. Now Morse has pushed him back in, crushing down on all his badly taped-up cracks and fractures until they break, until they shatter. Thursday sits on the sofa, day after day, while all the shards of his failures work their way into his heart. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

On his third day home he hears the doorbell ring, and the sound of low voices in the hall. After a minute Win comes to the doorway; her face is tight, the corner of her mouth turned low. “Fred, it’s –”

But Thursday has already seen the familiar face over her shoulder.

Two years at Kidlington don’t seem to have aged Arthur Lott much; he’s a little leaner, face slightly more weather-beaten, hair receded. He looks otherwise just as much of a weasel as he ever did, and right now he’s put on the smarmy smile that always rubbed Thursday the wrong way.

“Hullo, Fred,” he says. Win looks around, anger flashing in her eyes, but Lott is slipping past her into the den. 

Thursday, already sitting, sighs. “What do you want, Arthur?”

“Come to ask you a few questions, sir,” he says, seating himself in the easy chair without being invited and pulling out a cigarette. Thursday frowns.

“Questions? About what?”

Lott glances up at him, head cocked while he flicks his lighter open and lights the cigarette. “Your lad. ACC Deare. Blenheim Vale,” he says, as though he were discussing the weather. 

Anger flares in Thursday like a rocket, bright and hot. “The hell do you have to do with that? You’re in Vice, not Major Crimes.”

Lott shrugs with false sincerity. “Ah, well, they drafted me on for this inquiry, seeing as I’ve experience with you and Morse.”

“You’re the one who chucked Morse inside,” drives on Thursday, voice low and full of grit.

“You know how it is, Fred, an enquiry like this is bigger than one man. It wasn’t my decision.”

“No, but a pound to a penny you had your knife into him the moment you got the call. Finally a chance for some payback. Or isn’t that right?”

Lott’s face has hardened, insincere smile gone. “Look Fred –” he begins, firmly, but Thursday has had far too many years of working with snakes to be bitten by one.

“You can shove that. I want you out of this house, Lott. If County wants to interview me officially, they can damn well call me down there. But hell will freeze over before you set foot in here again – ever. Get out.” His chest is starting to ache from the tension in his muscles, but he doesn’t let it show in his face. Lott stares at him for a few seconds, then stands and leaves without another word.

Once he’s gone, Thursday calls Win in. “Call Sergeant Jakes for me, would you? I need to see him – now.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

The attempt to keep news about Morse from him was hard to fathom without the whole story. But the fact that Cowley seems to be treating him as a leper, avoiding contact to all degrees possible, is all too easy to make out. Morse came alone to Blenheim Vale, despite having gone to the nick. Whatever help he requested was denied, and the consequence of those refusals are black and white. 

The sergeant shows up more than forty minutes later, despite it only being a fifteen minute drive from the station. Thursday, already stewing, is ready to tear into him for it. But when the sergeant walks in, his surprise is enough to make him forget his intentions. 

Jakes marches into the room like a man being held at gun-point, so tense he’s stiff, his shirt collar limp with sweat and his usually-perfect hair dishevelled. He comes to a stop at the edge of the sofa, standing with his hands half-fisted at his sides. His eyes fall almost reluctantly on Thursday after sweeping the rest of the room, as though looking for any other point of focus. 

Jakes is a good liar and he has a decent poker-face – prerequisites for anyone who takes as many back-handers as he does, even if they are just small-time stuff. But Thursday’s been through five years of combat and a career made in the East End, and it takes more than a kid’s cocky grins and snappy answers to pull any wool over his eyes. 

Today, though, the sergeant isn’t even trying. His usual veneer of confidence and competence is gone, replaced by a shaky attempt at blankness. He is, Thursday thinks, ashamed. Ashamed, and scared. 

“Sit,” he says, watching as Jakes does so in one sharp movement, as though his legs were cut out from under him. “I want to know what happened,” finishes Thursday, simply, staring coldly at his sergeant. 

Jakes licks his lips. “Sir?”

“Why did Morse come alone to Blenheim Vale? Why did Kidlington get jurisdiction? And what the hell is Arthur Lott doing stalking through this case like a goddamn reaper?” he demands, watching Jakes’ jaw work. 

After a moment of thought, Jakes takes a breath and starts. Explains ACC Deare’s orders against any support from Cowley for investigations at Blenheim Vale, and thus Morse’s inability to recruit back-up – and Strange’s guilt-fed fear in the hospital. Then Strandish’s death and Deare’s bulletin against Morse, issued to County. And finally, Arthur Lott, somehow pushed into prominence by his own promise of internal knowledge and experience. 

Thursday listens to the whole story in silence. It’s a disgraceful railroading of Oxford CID’s jurisdiction and detective, but he can understand it. With Bright at the helm and given the stakes and Morse as the collateral, he can certainly understand it. 

Jakes reaches the end of his summary and stops, seemingly out of words and unable to find any more to fill the void. He’s knit his hands together, fingers twisting non-stop; for once, he isn’t smoking. Thursday doesn’t say anything, lets the silence eat into him like acid – if Jakes has something else to say, he wants to know. 

Eventually, Jakes leans forward, the stiffness falling out of his spine at the same time that the mask of composure slips further from his face. “He’s dead, sir. Isn’t he?” he asks in a low, rough voice. 

Thursday doesn’t reply. It isn’t really a question, and in any case he knows his own answer can be read easily enough in his eyes. Jakes shakes his head. “It’s my fault,” he says, simply. He looks up at Thursday, jaw very tense. “He came to me for help, and I wouldn’t – couldn’t – go. And now he’s dead.” He bites his lip for a moment, and then finishes in a very thin voice, “Just like Petey Williams.”

Thursday blinks at the familiar name, and then feels his heart twist as he remembers where he heard it. Petey Williams, the boy who disappeared from Blenheim Vale, presumed dead by the other boys. There had been a second Peter, he’d seen the photograph – smaller, younger. 

“ _Peter, I believe?_ ” Deare had said to him, once. Thursday feels bile rising in his throat. 

“Did Morse know?” he asks, quietly. Jakes nods, just once, and Thursday fights to keep his voice even. “And he asked you to go anyway?”

Jakes’ eyes widen. “Not like that. He worked it out after he asked me, after I refused. I tried to go,” he finishes, almost whispering. “God, I tried.”

“That’s not your fault, lad. None of it is. There are some demons no one can be expected to face.”

Jakes scowls, jaw tightening. “But now –” 

“Now we bring the guilty into the light. That’s up to you, until I’m back.”

“I won’t testify,” says Jakes, immediately, sitting up. “Not to – to the past.”

Thursday nods slowly. “We find the witnesses we can – those who are willing. We have enough to bury them – their reputations alongside their bodies. And then there’s Landesman. They weren’t going to leave any man standing. Nor will we.”

Jakes stands, running a hand over his face to wipe away the sweat. Some of the tension has eased from his shoulders, the haunted look faded from his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

Thursday waits until he hears the front door close to lie down, pulling an arm over his eyes and fisting his free hand in the knitted blanket Win draped over his knees earlier that morning. When Win comes in to ask if he’s alright, he tells her he’s fine. He hardly feels the sting of the lie.

\------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday regains the strength to get about on his own as the days grow shorter, candles and lanterns appearing in windows on the street to create little wells of warm light. Oxford CID finally wins jurisdiction of the Blenheim Vale case from County, McNutt stepping in to lead the investigation with Jakes and his own bagman under him. Landesman is arrested, and Chard – in hospital suffering from trauma – is put under review pending more conclusive evidence. The search for Morse is put on the back burner, his name disappearing from the papers and radio programs. 

Sitting at home staring out the window as the nights wax long, Thursday feels himself slipping into a grey uncertain space where his only companions are his grief and anger. In his heart, he is furious with Morse, stone cold furious with his selfish choice to give his life for Thursday’s. And to even voice that anger is to be an ingrate, to reject his own importance and the relief and love of his family. 

An impromptu visit by DeBryn to ask Thursday for the name of Morse’s girlfriend so that someone can inform the poor woman that she hasn’t been abandoned, but that she won’t see her lover again, only puts him in a blacker mood. Like so many of his secrets, Morse never shared that one, and now somewhere in Oxford a young woman is alone believing him to have skipped town and left her to save his own skin. Thursday isn’t sure whether or not to regret the fact that they may never be able to find her to tell her the truth. 

He therefore has no ability to explain why, when Morse’s landlady calls him to complain that her tenant’s rent is past due and demand he deal with the situation, he writes her a cheque for the amount in question. 

Morse is dead, has been for weeks. Thursday knows this to be true, is caught up in a storm of rage and regret because of it.

He just still can’t make himself face the reality of it. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

Christmas comes and goes, largely without fanfare at the Thursday household. He knows his family are in a mood to celebrate, want to embrace his miraculous return, want to let out all the fear and grief and helplessness with celebration and cheer. But he can’t face the idea of rejoicing with a straight face, so they keep the event low key and he ends the night by drinking altogether more sherry than he should and staggering up to bed to wake up the next morning with a pounding headache. 

Ten days later, the doorbell rings. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

Thursday is in the dining room listening to the wireless after dinner when he hears Win open the front door.

The house isn’t quiet; Sam’s watching some sports program on the tele next door and Joan is upstairs listening to her transistor, probably playing rock and roll from a pirate station. But the door into the hallway is open, and although the conversation is quiet, he can make it out if he strains his ears. The visitor is a woman, and not one of Win’s usual friends. 

“Is Inspector Thursday home, please?”

There’s a momentary pause before Win replies. “May I ask what it’s about, dear?”

“It’s about Morse. Detective Constable Morse.”

“I don’t know, love, Fred’s still recovering and –”

But Thursday has already risen and stepped over to the door. Standing on his front doorstep is Morse’s neighbour, the young black woman. He can’t remember her name, but he once gave her a ten bob note to look after Morse. She’s well-dressed and trying to appear confident, her eyes watchful. 

“Step in, please,” he says. Win gives him a worried look, but apparently recognizes the determination in his face. 

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she says, and heads for the kitchen.

Thursday takes the young woman through into the dining room and re-seats himself, motioning for her to do the same. She shuts the door behind them, he doesn’t fail to notice. He clears his throat apologetically. “I’m sorry, I know we’ve met, but…”

“Monica Hicks,” she says, plainly. Her posture is nervous, hands clutching the hem of her winter coat tightly, but her face is resolute. “I’ve been seeing Morse for the past few months,” she adds, in the same tone. Thursday sucks in a breath, cold dread knifing him in the kidneys. This is not a conversation he was prepared for. 

“Miss Hicks, I –”

She breaks in before he can find any words, leaning forward slightly. Her expression is earnest, but also urgent. “I know he didn’t run; I know you know that too. And I know that you’re going to be the one to find him. Soon.” She stares at him straight-on, her dark eyes flint-hard. She isn’t making assumptions; there is no doubt in her tone.

Thursday struggles not to feel lost in the sudden violent turn towards nonsense that this conversation has taken. She doesn’t appear in any way hysterical, nor in denial. “How do you know?” he asks, carefully.

“I’ve seen it. Over and over. And that ought to mean that it will happen, but it hasn’t, and I started to worry that perhaps the only way you will find him is if I tell you.”

Thursday’s eyebrows are rising, a shiver running up his spine. “Are you a –”

She cuts him off sharply, releasing her coat and clasping her hands together in her lap. “Please don’t say it. Just say that I know when Morse is in trouble. I know when he is _going to be_ in trouble. And I know you will find him and get him out of it.”

Thursday stares at the woman in front of him, at the woman claiming to be a seer, and tries to marshal his thoughts. Eventually he sighs, forcing himself to untense. “Miss, I’m sorry, but I don’t think Morse can be alive.” It’s the first time he’s said the words aloud; they sound flat, empty to his ears. To give them conviction would be to unlock his anger, and he can’t do that. Not in front of this poor girl. 

Miss Hicks stares at him, breathing slowly and deeply as if to ward off shock. “I can’t tell you that. But I don’t think I would see it if he were. I – I don’t think he can be,” she says, sounding less certain now, a tremor in her voice.

“What is it you see, then?”

“You. You’re angry, very angry. He’s there, but you’re the prominent image, I can’t see him clearly. It’s him you’re angry with,” she adds, softly. 

“Where is this?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s not somewhere I recognise. Somewhere dark, all stone – perhaps even marble? There aren’t any windows, it might be a basement or a cellar. I think it’s a small space, quite cramped; there are tall metal stands – for candles, or maybe torches.” She shakes her head again. “I’m sorry, it’s rarely clear. Just impressions mostly – dread, fear, anguish – and a few images.”

Thursday stares at her, hard. True seers are rarer than hen’s teeth, but fakes abound in all high-profile areas, including police work. “If you know these things, why didn’t you warn him in the first place?” 

She stiffens but doesn’t shrink back. “I tried. The night he was arrested and you were shot. I tried to call him. He wouldn’t answer. By the time he decided to do – whatever he’s done – it was too late. The prison wasn’t taking calls for him, and a letter would never have been in time. There was nothing I could do but wait.”

“And now?”

“Time is running out. I don’t know why; I can’t see that. Only you, and him.” She watches him unflinchingly, fingers locked together so tightly the beds of her nails are white. He doesn’t see hunger, or excitement, or even need in her eyes. Just conviction, and fear. Whether or not she’s seen what she says, she believes it. 

Thursday nods. “Alright. Thank you, Miss Hicks.”

She doesn’t stand. “Inspector, I don’t share this secret. Not with friends, not with family except my parents. Not with Morse; he doesn’t know, never will. Absolute secrecy is the only way I can live, or live freely, at least.”

“Miss Hicks, if what you say is true, you have my word I’ll never tell a soul.”

She smiles sadly. “Thank you for that. I’ll hold you to it.”

Win knocks on the door, and Miss Hicks stands. “I have to go. Please – find him.” She steps out as Win arrives carrying the tea tray. 

“Leaving already dear?”

“Yes, thank you. Goodbye.”

There’s a click, and she’s gone. Win puts the tray down on the table and starts pouring out. “Well, I suppose we can have a cuppa anyway.”

But Thursday is already standing. If any of what she just said was true, he can’t stay. 

He has one horrible, gut-twisting idea where Morse might be. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday borrows a neighbour’s car for the drive; he takes with him his torch, a crowbar and his pistol, tucking the gun into his waistband as soon as he gets out of the car. The cold weight of the metal butt is reassuring against his hipbone. 

The sky is clear as he gets out of the car, stars tiny white pricks in the black sheet of the sky. The earth is frozen hard as he makes the walk to St Giles through the cemetery, hand on his pistol, passing through the long line of yew trees that leads through the graveyard to the church door in near silence. The door, as always, is open, soft candlelight shining out with the offer of sanctuary for those who need it. 

No one is in the church nave, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness. Thursday hurries through the entranceway and turns towards the bell tower. And beneath it, the entrance to the catacombs. 

There’s a padlock on the trapdoor in the wooden platform that leads down into the stone passageways. The whole structure is relatively new, remade two years ago to facilitate the removal of five corpses. Thursday sets his mouth and levers the padlock off; he’s not going to waste time now trying to roust out the vicar.

The metal of the lock’s hinge is cheap and weak; it only takes a couple good heaves to break it. Thursday throws the trapdoor open and shines his torch down into the darkness below; nothing. Taking a deep breath, he descends the new wooden stairs, so narrow and steep they might almost be a ladder. No one wants a convenient entrance to the catacombs in their backyard. 

Down in the tunnel beneath the church there’s no light or sound, just the smell of cold air and stone. _Past touch, and sight, and sound_ , Morse had said – nearly the last words he spoke. Thursday grits his teeth and advances slowly, torch in one hand and crowbar in the other, ready to drop it for his pistol if needed. 

Set into the stone wall a little ways along is a wooden door, also new. There’s no lock; Thursday frowns. There should be. He puts down the crowbar and pulls out his pistol, then slowly pushes open the door.

Thursday steps into the crypt’s entranceway, and it seems to him that the air still carries a lingering scent of burnt flesh – imagination, surely. Two years ago almost to the day, he and three other officers including Lott found the remains of a failed blood rite in the crypt. Six corpses, four horribly burned. One that was immolated when disturbed by a young PC. And one which turned out not to be dead. Morse.

“Morse?” he says, very softly. The stone walls soak up his words, and the whisper dies. He steps into the open space of the room and shines his torch slowly around. 

The rite took a year and a half of Morse’s life as well as the lives of the five other sacrifices, nearly finished his career subsequently, and left lingering fall-out. Thursday doesn’t believe Morse had ever been back to St Giles; he never talked about the rite. Thursday can’t think of a place he would hate to be more, can’t conceive of a reason Morse would be here. But one tiny flicker of hope has kindled in his heart, and he finds himself leaning into it. 

There are six stone tombs in the crypt arranged in a circular pattern, holding the bodily remains of ancient patrons of the church and citizens of power. Five of them are bare, their tops flat and smooth. 

On the sixth, nearest to him where two years ago he found a young man he didn’t know, a dark shape is slumped. Thursday feels his legs start to shake, locks his knees and steps forward. “Morse?” he asks again, voice stronger. 

Thursday rounds the stone tomb, training the beam from his torch on the form atop it, and stops as he comes to stand at its side. He feels his breath leave him, stealing a low groan from him as it goes. 

Morse is lying on the tomb, heaped there in an untidy pile as though someone had carried him in and tossed him down carelessly. His expression is soft as if sleeping peacefully, his unruly hair curling down over his brow and his lashes resting against his cheeks. But his face in the bright torchlight has a pallor that Thursday knows all too well: the grey, lifelessness of the dead. 

Monica Hicks was wrong. He isn’t in time. Was never going to be. 

Morse is dead.

TO BE CONCLUDED


	17. the phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

Morse is lying, grey and lifeless, on the same tomb he had been left on two years ago – then, a sacrifice in a desperate man’s bid to bring life back to his child. Now it is Thursday whose life was suspended in the balance, and again Morse in the role of the sacrifice. Only this time, by his own hand. 

Thursday stumbles forward fueled by his last glimmer of hope, pistol falling from his hand to hit the stone floor with a crack. He checks Morse’s neck and under the pull-over and worn shirt of his prison uniform. Morse’s skin is cold as the stone he lies on, but there is nothing there that shouldn’t be. No silver pendant, no compass. 

“You fool, Morse,” he spits. “You stupid, arrogant, selfish, wretched _fool!_ ” His voice breaks as he slams his fists down on the stone beside Morse, legs giving way and dropping him painfully onto his knees. The torch tumbles away, rolling to a stop at the corner of the tomb. “You knew – you bloody well _knew_ about Mickey; how could you –” he can’t go on, choked by the sour, poisonous mixture of his grief and rage. His head feels as though it weighs fifty pounds; he drops it to rest on his wrists, nails sliding against the smooth marble as he draws his hands into fists. 

“Though you should build a bark of dead men's bones,  
And rear a phantom gibbet for a mast,  
Stitch creeds together for a sail, with groans  
To fill it out, bloodstained and aghast;  
…certes you would fail  
To find the Melancholy.”

A cold, wet voice raises Thursday’s head; he grabs for his torch and the light shatters and dies. 

Slowly, a soft green glow fills the room. It’s coming from the corners; old phosphorous lanterns coming to life apparently of their own accord. By the firefly light, he can see a man standing in the crypt’s entranceway. 

His clothes are old and worn, nearly black with age more than colouring; a frock-coat with ragged cuffs and moth-eaten tails covers a dark shirt and trousers. He wears no coat despite the cold of winter, his hands covered in only fingerless leather gloves. His hair is thick and silver, cut unevenly as though by a razor. His face is that of a young man, but the eyes watching Thursday are very old, and except to speak his face does not move. He reminds Thursday of an old Victorian doll: smooth porcelain face and cold, staring eyes. 

“But in such a place as this, perhaps she could be found,” finishes the Necromancer.

“If there’s sorrow in this place, it’s because of you,” growls Thursday, words ripped raw from his throat. 

The Necromancer steps into the room, passing the tomb bearing Morse on its far side to stand in the centre of the crypt. “No. It was here long before me.” He produces a sprig of yew from his pocket; the end licks into bright, green flame. With it he sketches a careless sigil in the air. 

Above the stone floor in the empty circle in the middle of the tombs a pale mist begins to rise. It’s very thin, lying faint and fragile an inch above the flagstones. As he stares at it, Thursday recognizes the pattern. Lescault’s rite. 

His fingers, searching carefully out of sight behind the tomb, close on the cold metal grip of his revolver. Thursday stands slowly, but raises the gun from the shadow of his side in the blink of an eye. 

The Necromancer turns his head, ancient eyes unimpressed. “Can you imagine how many people have tried?”

Thursday stares straight down the revolver’s barrel. “Far fewer than have wanted to.”

“And yet here I am. They are not.”

He doesn’t have to threaten, doesn’t have to raise a hand. Blood mages can kill with a word, and he’s the stuff of their nightmares. 

Thursday knows he should put down the weapon. A month ago, he probably would have. But tonight, looking into the face of evil, all he feels is thirty years of anger. Thirty years of staring down monsters, of watching good men die. He won’t bow to this creature – not now, not ever. 

“You think after Africa, and Italy, and London – and this – that I give a damn?” he grits out, arm absolutely steady. 

The Necromancer shrugs slightly. By his far hip, hidden from Thursday’s view by his body, something flickers green. In Thursday’s hand, the gun turns white-hot in a heartbeat. Thursday’s single shot careens off into the wall before he’s forced to drop the revolver, holding his wrist tightly as if the pressure might stop the pain from shooting up his arm. His palm and fingers are turning red. 

“What do you want?” he asks heavily. “To gloat?” 

“That is not worth all this trouble. Your young fool came all the way to my doorstep to get what he wanted, and he did. Now it is my turn.”

Thursday gives him a long, cold stare. “I don’t bargain.”

The Necromancer turns to face him, eyes never leaving Thursday’s face. “Not even for his life?”

“He’s dead. No pendant, no compass.”

“He isn’t a sacrifice. He is the benefactor.” The man – the monster – moves forward and reaches out to draw his index finger down the line of Morse’s jaw; Morse’s head lolls gently to the side. There are no fingernails on the Necromancer’s fingers, his skin dry and withered. Thursday’s stomach clenches, but he doesn’t move. “The rite he survived left both this place and him imbued with magic; far more than he could or would ever use. To take it all from him at once would almost certainly kill him.” 

“That’s what he traded? The magic?”

The Necromancer cants his head slyly, hair falling over his mask-like face. “He has many things of value: youth, brilliance, music, empathy, even beauty of a sort. I have taken all those things in my time.” His finger run further down, tracing the line of Morse’s jugular. “But he knew his value, and yours. It was the magic he offered.” 

“And you were kind enough to what? Put him back into hibernation to keep it from killing him?”

“Kindness. A word I rarely hear. If you like, yes. The magic left in this place has kept him alive; by now he will have recovered enough to maintain that state. _If_ I wake him. If not, he dies when the magic runs out; quite soon, now. It’s a complex rite to fuel.”

“And what do you want for that? My life? My soul? Some other poor bastard’s?”

The Necromancer raises his eyes from Morse. There is no trace of amusement there, nothing but cold calculation. “Much easier. I want his name.”

Thursday feels his breath catch. “Morse’s? Why?” It’s too easy. Far, far too easy.

“I believe that is my business.”

“If you want his name, it’s mine,” returns Thursday stonily. 

“If you want his _life,_ ” rasps the Necromancer, with the first sign of animation in his voice, “it is _mine_.”

Thursday swallows. “I won’t give it to you; not unless I know what it’s for. Might as well sell him into your slavery.”

“Do not be dramatic. There are dozens of ways to control a man; almost none require his name. Had I wanted a puppet I could have strung him up a month ago.”

He’s missing something. He must be. But he believes the words; spinning webs of slavery based on names is old faery magic, nothing a Necromancer or any blood mage would need resort to. And for the life of him, he can’t see how Morse’s name could be used to hurt anyone other than Morse. 

“Swear it. Swear you will never use his name to harm, coerce or control him.” 

He’s a monster, evil through and through. But his trade is in deals, and he keeps his word. People who pact with the devil have no choice.

The Necromancer spreads his hands palm-up, a gesture of good faith. “I swear,” he intones gravely. 

“Endeavour. Endeavour Morse.”

“If you are telling the truth, he will live. If not…” He shrugs, then turns and strides back into the centre of the mist-etched circle. Kneeling, he uses the burnt-out end of the yew branch to scrawl two words in ash on the stone. _ENDEAVOUR MORSE._

Instantly, the pale mist begins darkening from the centre outwards, turning first a pale pink and deepening towards red, the mirror-image of blood dropped into water. When it reaches bright, bloody scarlet the mist burns off, the whole circle of it disappearing in hardly a second from the middle to the edges. 

On the tomb in front of him, Morse gives a great strangled gasp. His back arches with the strength of it, the whole of him shuddering as he tumbles back sharply into the land of the living. Then he’s breaking into desperate, wracking coughs, his body fighting to start breathing again and drag air into his cold, empty lungs. Thursday pulls him over onto his side and he curls inwards automatically, panting. 

When Thursday looks up again, he and Morse are alone in the tomb.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Returning from death isn’t quick; Thursday remembers that much from the first time they played out this scene. Morse’s heartbeat starts out heavy and sluggish, fighting to bring life back into his cold body. It takes several minutes before he’s warm enough even to start shivering. Rather mechanically, Thursday pulls off his coat and drapes it over his bagman; it will hardly help – not until he’s generating more heat of his own.

For the moment, all there is to do is wait. It’s not hard; he’s had plenty of practice this past month. He eases himself down and sits with his back to the tomb, head resting against the marble lid. 

If he had thought about it, he would have expected to feel conflicted, expected a tangle of contradictory emotions. But in fact, sitting on the cold flagstones listening to Morse’s weak breaths, he feels only one thing: anger.

Morse knew. He _knew_ this deal could kill him – given the man he was trusting with it, probably would. Thursday had been in the room with him when Porter had told him so. But he’d gone and done it anyway, laid himself out on a slab all grey and still, and left the rest of them to pick up the pieces. Thursday’s jaw starts to ache, and he realises he’s grinding his teeth together so hard he’s giving himself a headache.

Behind him, Morse gives a cough and then a moan. And then, shocked and disbelieving: “Sir?”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me, Morse,” says Thursday, tiredly. He turns slowly to look over his shoulder and meet Morse’s wide, staring eyes. Morse tries to reach out to him; Thursday catches his shaking wrist in a firm grip above the cuff of his shirt. “Don’t think you want to do that.”

“Si – Inspector?”

“Just lie there and keep breathing,” orders Thursday, turning around again.

“You’re angry,” says Morse, softly. Thursday says nothing. “You were _dying_ , they were going to disgrace you, drag your family through the mud – they wouldn’t even let me see you…” he’s fighting for breath, wheezing asthmatically as he speaks. 

“So you decided to be buried instead?” begins Thursday, before dropping his head into his hands, rubbing at his temples and forehead. “Just – just rest, Morse. I can’t do this now – _you_ can’t do this now.”

Morse falls silent for a moment. “I didn’t want to die, sir. I hoped…”

“You can’t _hope_ with a man like that; he operates on only one principle: twist every situation for his advantage. Or were you counting on me to deal with him?”

There’s a shuffle of clothes, cloth scraping against marble as Morse shifts. “Did you?” he sounds scared. 

Thursday drops his hands, fighting not to turn and throttle the man. “ _Yes_ , Morse, because you left me no goddamn choice. Just like he wanted.” 

“What? What did you give?” 

For an instant, Thursday is tempted to twist the knife. Show Morse just what he’s had them all feeling for the past month, what he’s left them to wonder. But even in his anger, he’s never been cruel. Not to the people he cares for.

“Your name; that’s all he wanted.”

Behind him there’s an instant of silence. And then, quietly, Morse starts to choke. 

Thursday swivels fast, finds him lying on his side with his fingers clenched over the edge of the tomb, eyes bulging as he struggles to suck air in through a closing throat. Thursday gives him a couple hard thumps on the back, hoping to dislodge whatever it is that’s stuck in his airway. Morse starts coughing, untensing as he starts drawing in breaths again. “ _You told him?_ ” he chokes out in horror, eyes narrowed against his coughs. 

“Yes – there’s nothing he can do to you, you’re safe –”

“Not me…” Morse drops his head onto the tomb, breathes coming fast and shallow; his face is still unnaturally pale, exhaustion flooding in fast. “My mother.”

Thursday stares. He’s just woken up, is still several degrees below normal temperature and barely able to focus his eyes. It’s entirely possible that he’s delirious, his memory or mind – or both – affected by the pseudo-coma. “Morse, your mother is dead.”

“I know,” snaps Morse. “I… he found out something. About me – about someone I know. I never imagined – I had no idea, couldn’t have...” Morse is wandering, eyes losing some of their focus , but he swallows and cuts himself off. Tries to return to his point. “He wanted this person. Badly.”

Thursday feels a chill descending over him. “Is this about Miss Hicks?” he asks, carefully. Morse’s eyes widen, so huge there’s a white rim around the outside of his irises. “I know, Morse. She told me where to find you.”

It takes a few seconds for Morse to take that in, shoulders heaving with the force of his breaths. He shouldn’t be talking – can’t even hold his head up. But he struggles on, and Thursday can’t stop him; not without finding out what’s been done. “I didn’t know; it – that’s not a secret you share. Not ever. But he knew from me; he could feel her touch, her presence… And he wanted her. I refused; I thought… I thought he would break the deal. He didn’t need to; he has other ways.” Morse shivers, fingers clenching on the tomb. “Eventually, I had to tell him something. Something believable – and safe. So I did.”

“You _lied_ to him?” demands Thursday, incredulous. 

Morse looks back flatly. “It was good; very good. He knew the seer was someone close to me; I couldn’t give him someone alive.”

“So you gave him someone dead.”

“Yes. It takes a body or a tie to a direct relative to reach the dead – that much, I knew. I told him my mother was killed in the hunts. No body, just ash. I was… convincing,” spits out Morse, mouth twisting into a scowl. Thursday feels his heart twisting: Morse has always been convincing in his hatred for the Reductionists, but Thursday can’t imagine how much heart he must have put into story he told to sell that lie. 

“And your name?” he asks, voice carefully blank. 

“Buried, to protect her. I wouldn’t give it. I thought unless he got into my old personnel files, he wouldn’t find it. I couldn’t see him breaking into the file room.” Morse closes his eyes. “It held together; I made it hold together. But now he’ll find her – and when he realises she’s no seer he’ll take his rage out on her…”

His eyes snap open and he reaches out, fingers digging into Thursday’s arm in a painful, uncontrolled grip. “You have to do something,” he says, panic beginning to flood in. “Go to Porter, the university – anyone. Forget about me, go –” 

Thursday’s wrath, until now simmering in the background, boils over very suddenly. “ _Don’t,_ ” he growls, low and dangerously. “Don’t you say that – not now, not ever. Never again, Morse, so long as you live. For once why don’t you use that clever head of yours to damn well _think_ with and imagine what you left us all to live with. Nothing to do but wonder what part of your humanity you’d sold for me, if your body would ever even be found, what monsters might be feeding on it. How d’you think your sister took the news? And your poor lady – none of us even knew her name, we couldn’t find her to tell her; as far as we knew she’d believe the papers and think you’d left her and gone on the run to the continent.” 

Morse’s face is full of pain, forehead wrinkled with it, eyes bright with unshed tears. “I couldn’t just let you die –”

“ _That isn’t your call._ You’re no reaper, no angel or demon. Death isn’t your province, Morse; keep your hand out of it.” Morse looks about to protest, and Thursday pulls back. He’s had enough of this, has already let it go on too long. “We’re not leaving here until you’re well enough to walk out. You’d do better to save your breath.” However alone they may be down here, he has no intention of leaving Morse to go call for help. Not in this tomb, not ever.

Morse gives him a look of betrayal, but closes his mouth and after a moment drops his head back down to rest on the tomb, curling in against the cold. Thursday reseats himself and settles in to wait.

\------------------------------------------------------

It’s nearly quarter of an hour before Morse is stable enough to be taken out, leaning heavily on Thursday’s shoulder. Outside they stagger through the graveyard and across the street to Thursday’s borrowed Rover. Morse collapses into the corner, silent and grim. Only when he doesn’t recognize their route does he speak up, voice rough. “Where –” 

“DeBryn’s,” cuts in Thursday, shortly. “You need a doctor, and looking after.”

“I _need_ to talk to Porter.”

“I can do that.”

“And if I have to go home – to Lincolnshire – to take care of things?” asks Morse, arms folded tightly over himself. In Thursday’s over-large coat and the prison clothes he has a scarecrow look to him, pale and awkward. 

Thursday keeps his eyes on the road. “You can’t think of anyone who owes you a favour?”

\---------------------------------------------------

DeBryn is more than surprised to see them, but he’s a professional trained to assess and autopsy those who met violent fates; he recovers very quickly. Thursday leaves him to get Morse settled into his guest room and examined and excuses himself. He makes a call to Win first to stop her worrying, then Porter. And, after that, a visit. 

Thursday doesn’t bother to beat around the bush with Porter and the professor, sensing his urgency, gives him an unusually straight answer. The spirits of bodies buried at crossroads in a circle of iron can’t be raised, even by necromancy. 

After that, all it takes is two phone calls. 

\----------------------------------------------------

DeBryn looks as though he’s been waiting for Thursday. The pathologist watches him come in, Thursday noting his own coat now hanging on one of the hooks in the front hall along with several others. 

“He won’t sleep until he’s spoken with you,” DeBryn tells Thursday in a low voice, looking irritated. “He needs to rest.”

Thursday glances down the hall at the closed bedroom door. “Is he alright?”

DeBryn’s face hardens. “He will be. His temperature is only a few degrees below normal, heartrate and breathing stable. The rest he will recover from in time.”

Thursday looks at him sharply. “What rest?”

“He didn’t tell you?” DeBryn’s eyes are grave, the lines of his face drawn into an unusually cold expression. “He’s been tortured.”

_I thought he would break the deal. He didn’t need to; he has other ways._ Thursday heard the words, and even the implication behind them. He still hadn’t listened.

“How?” he asks, mouth dry.

DeBryn shrugs. “Magic can be used to inflict any amount of pain in a spectrum of creative and perverse ways. In the grand scheme of things, he got off lightly. The only lasting injury is skin mottling, and that will fade in time.”

Thursday makes to pass DeBryn on his way to Morse’s room, and is stopped when the doctor doesn’t move out of his way. “He’s also afraid. Of many things, I believe, but not the least you. Of the damage he may have done to your friendship, and to you. He’s not in a state to be browbeaten about it now. Tell him whatever it is he needs to hear, and let him rest.”

“I’ve done my browbeating for the night, doctor,” replies Thursday, tiredly, and pushes past him. 

Thursday opens the door to the guest bedroom to find it dark, lights out and curtains drawn. “Morse?” he asks in a whisper, reminded suddenly and unpleasantly of stepping into the crypt. 

Beside the bed, a lamp turns on. 

Morse is lying under a heavy winter duvet and an additional woollen blanket, his face finally showing colour. He’s wearing a flannel pyjama top that’s too large for him, doubtless DeBryn’s. He starts to sit up but Thursday raises a hand. “Don’t.” 

The inspector closes the door and strides over to the wooden chair placed at the bedside, easing himself down slowly into it. He hasn’t had this much exercise since before the shooting; his incision is aching, his muscles sore and weary. “Everything’s taken care of,” he says, before Morse can start. “Your mother will be safe to rest in peace.”

“How?”

Thursday sighs. “Her grave will be moved. It’s best you don’t know where; the bastard might be back someday.”

“But then how –”

“Jakes and Strange are going. They’ll take care of it.”

Morse gives him a troubled look, brows furrowing. “Jakes doesn’t owe me anything.”

“No,” agrees Thursday, “but maybe he feels he owes it to his conscience.” 

Morse gives him a sharp look but says nothing; Thursday holds the silence. Jakes’ past is his own, unless he agrees to participate in the investigation. 

“And what do I owe my conscience?” Morse asks, quietly, after a beat. Thursday sighs, standing.

“It’s your conscience. That’s up to you.” He steps out from beside the bed, resting his arm on the chair’s back. “DeBryn says you need to sleep. Put your head down.”

Morse shakes his head, starting to get up. “I have to go home – Monica –”

“You’re not leaving without some sleep, Morse. Then I’ll take you home.” DeBryn would do it, he knows. But he needs to see the girl safe too; especially now. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

Thursday phones Win a second time to tell her he won’t be home tonight; it’s already gone eleven. DeBryn sets him up on the sofa with blankets and pillows, and although his mind is racing his body is exhausted; it drags him down into the dark waters of sleep shortly after the lights are turned out. 

It’s still dark when he’s woken by the phone ringing. Thursday wakes slowly, fighting his way out of heavy dreams, to find himself trapped in a nest of blankets. By the time he’s gotten himself out DeBryn has appeared, switching on the hall light, to answer the phone. 

It’s a short conversation. He comes into the front room after ringing off, blinking owlishly from behind his glasses. “That was Sergeant Jakes. He said to tell you he’s back in Oxford, and everything is fine.”

Thursday nods. DeBryn seems to be considering pressing for further details, but decides against it. Just as he’s turning to leave there’s the sound of a door opening further down the hall. A moment later Morse appears, draped in the overly-large borrowed pyjamas and with his hair mussed by sleep. “What is it?” he asks, eyes flicking from DeBryn to Thursday.

“Jakes is back. Everything’s fine,” says Thursday.

The worry evaporates from Morse’s face, eyes sliding closed momentarily in relief. When he opens them he looks to Thursday. “I need to go home, now. I’m fine. Please. I can get a cab.”

Thursday glances at his watch; 5:50. He nods slowly. “No need for that. Get changed.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

They’re halfway to Morse’s flat before Morse looks up, stiffening. “Sir, my keys –”

“I have a set.” He put them on his keyring to remind him Morse’s flat would, eventually, need seeing to. It hadn’t worked.

“And the rest of my things? Am I under arrest?” he asks, turning to look at Thursday. He sounds lost, dropped alone into an unfamiliar landscape. “I don’t even know what day it is.”

“It’s Wednesday. January 4th. And no, you’re not under arrest, not for now. Not unless the Crown presses charges for escaping custody, and I imagine they’ve better things to do. The case has been moving along without you; you’re no longer a suspect, just a witness. It’ll still take some sorting out.” 

“January,” says Morse, sounding shaken, pulling a hand through his hair. 

Thursday sets his jaw. “Took a while to find you. Wouldn’t have at all, if it hadn’t been for Miss Hicks.” _Because we weren’t looking_ – words he can’t force himself to say.

Morse is silent for a long minute. “I should have worked it out,” he says, quietly. “Should have realised.”

“Morse, you couldn’t have known. They don’t share their secrets with anyone.” But she had. For him. Morse had found someone in his life willing to give up what no one else would for him. And Thursday hadn’t even known her name. 

“She always knew when I was in trouble – when I needed help. She was just… there, and I never noticed. And… I could feel it.” He chafes his hands slowly, rubbing his fingers as if to remind himself. Thursday glances at him questioningly, and Morse shrugs. “We can only Recognize within our set – empaths to empaths, telepaths to telepaths. Seers to seers. But we’re all cousins, of a sort. There’s a connection; much weaker, just a kind of solidarity. A sense of trust… warmth,” he says, almost to himself. “And Deare thought it was me,” he says, with dark humour.

“Deare?” demands Thursday, braking too sharply to yield to an oncoming car. 

“He was looking for a seer. All these years. At Blenheim Vale, maybe since. His latest target was me.” Morse looks over at Thursday. “Don’t you see? That’s why you were there. You were drawn into the whole thing because of me, because Deare has been leading me along all year trying to draw me out, and when he realised he was wrong and he’d let me get too far in the investigation he had to get rid of me – and you.”

Thursday stops the car. They’re just down the road from Morse’s building, the whole street dark except for the occasional candle still burning in the windows of those more wary than most. He shuts off the engine then turns to Morse, eyes dark. “Is that what this was all about? Some misplaced sense of guilt? Your daft attempt to put right a wrong that didn’t exist?”

Morse is taking deep, silent breaths, his shoulders rising and falling with them. “If it had been Joan or Sam dying in the hospital, what would you have done?”

“It wasn’t, because my children aren’t police officers. Sometimes things go wrong. Sometimes people die. We all know that’s a risk, we signed up knowing it. It doesn’t mean you throw your own life into the fire to try to pull theirs out.”

“Is that how you felt about Mickey Carter’s death, then? Just a casualty of the job?” 

The words land like a punch to the gut, and Thursday tenses. “Don’t you start with that, Morse –”

Morse’s mouth narrows, lips a fine, pale line. Finally, very coldly, he puts a hand on the door handle. “Until now, I’ve lost everyone I’ve cared for without being able to do anything to stop it. I’m tired of it, sick to death of it. And because this time I wouldn’t let it go I endangered the woman I love, and may have lost you anyway.” He opens the door, gets out, and slams it behind him. Alone, he sticks his hands in the pockets of his inmate’s jacket and starts walking down the street towards his building. 

Thursday curses quietly to himself, jerking the keys out of the ignition. For a moment he watches his bagman walk away from him, his narrow back bent against the cold. Then he gets out and follows.

The lad is already at the front door by the time he gets up, buzzing a name. M. Hicks. Thursday pulls the keys out of his pocket and flips to the building door, offers it to Morse. He takes it silently, unlocking it and opening the door. Thursday puts a hand on his shoulder before he can go in. Morse turns back, half-afraid, half-angry; Thursday meets his stare evenly. “You haven’t lost me, lad. Not yet.”

The anger drains from Morse’s face, leaving behind the shocked look of a man who’s been struck. After an instant Morse blinks and a careful, shy smile quirks the corners of his mouth. He nods, and leads the way inside. 

They don’t meet anyone on the staircase going up. “She may have the night shift,” suggests Morse, but he sounds worried and picks up his pace. On his hallway he bypasses his own door, going to the end of the corridor and knocking at the flat there. There’s no answer. He comes back, frowning, and opens his door.

It’s been almost a month since Strange was here cleaning out the perishables. The rest of the flat is much as he can imagine the constable left it – a tip. Bed unmade, a tie on the back of one chair and a shirt hanging from the door to his wardrobe. Books everywhere, and the turntable’s lid still open. 

Morse bypasses all of this, heading straight for the flimsy dinner table. On it are two folded shirts and a letter addressed to Morse. He snatches it up, ripping the paper from the unsealed envelope. 

Thursday sees the blood drain from his face as he reads, skin paling as his eyes flick frantically. “No. No no no –” he slams out of the flat and back down the hall, pounding frantically on the door this time. There’s no answer. 

“Morse!” Thursday follows him out, fear blooming in his chest. “What – ”

Morse turns to him, white-faced. “The station, she might still be there.” He’s already running past Thursday, voice cutting out as it hits the bottom of his range. Thursday closes the door and follows. 

He makes it to the car almost as fast as Morse; importantly, because Morse is in no state to drive. He gets in behind the wheel before Morse can protest, and amazingly Morse doesn’t, jumping in the passenger side so fast he nearly catches his ankle slamming the door. 

“The letter,” begins Thursday. Morse is clutching it, forgotten, paper crumpled in his fist. 

“She’s leaving. Last night, now, I don’t know – she isn’t coming back.”

Thursday remembers the sad smile she gave him as she stepped out of his sitting room, and presses the throttle towards the floor. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Morse jumps out of the car at the station before Thursday’s brought it to a stop, sprinting inside. At a little past six everything is still quiet and sleepy, the station nearly empty. Thursday follows, a cold grimness settling over him. There’s a 6:15 to London, the first major train of the day. 

Thursday jogs through the station and out onto the platform to find it mostly unoccupied; a few men in suits and heavy coats and one older woman with a young child. And, down at the end of the platform, a young woman with two suitcases. Morse is already halfway there. Thursday slows, dropping into a walk and glancing at his watch. 6:15; the train is already late. 

In the distance he watches Morse come to an ungainly stop, half-hunched and panting. He grabs Monica’s hands, talking at a furious pace. She’s crying, but she shakes her head. Over and over, as he pleads with her. 

Thursday draws up several yards away and leans against the brick wall of the station; he’s just close enough to hear them. 

“We won’t – I swear,” Morse is saying, fiercely.

“You will. Everyone does, sooner or later. And by then, it will be too late for me to leave.” 

“Monica, please –”

She presses a hand to his face, lips trembling as she tries to force a smile. “How much of this is real? How much is just – just who we are?”

Morse shakes his head desperately. “It’s still real. It makes no difference why –”

“It does if it isn’t love.”

Morse gives a little choking hiccough. “I love you – that _is_ real.”

In the distance, Thursday hears the low rumble of an approaching train. He looks to the other end of the platform and sees it turn the corner into view, slowing for the station. When he looks back the couple is kissing, holding each other in a tight, desperate embrace. And then the train is drawing up and Monica is pulling away, wiping tears from her face with the side of her hand and picking up her bags. 

“Alright – then let me come with you,” he says, glancing at the train for an instant before looking back to her. Thursday sees the sadness in her eyes – and the fear. He can’t believe that Morse doesn’t. 

The train only stops for a moment, eager to make up lost time. Morse stands on the platform, shifting his weight back and forth, preparing to jump on. Then the doors are closing and it’s pulling away, leaving the platform empty except for Thursday and Morse. He stands staring after it, hands fisted at his side, the letter lying crushed at his feet. 

Eventually, Thursday goes over to him. Morse is staring into the distance along the empty rails, face red and soaked with tears. Thursday puts an arm around his shoulder and turns him away; Morse folds in against him, shaking. 

“Alright, lad. It’ll be alright.”

\------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a long time before Morse can speak; they’re most of the way back to his flat before he clears his throat. “She said she couldn’t stay; not where we knew her secret. Sooner or later there would be a case, or someone would be hurt, and we would come to her. After that, it never stops. Not until someone like Deare catches on.”

“Is that why you stayed?”

Morse shakes his head slowly. “I’ve already brought her into danger. If he – if the Necromancer ever comes back for the real name, she can’t be with me. I’m sure he can find me if he wants me, now. The only way to keep her safe is not to know where she is. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would never have asked to go.” He rubs at his eyes. 

“If you’d been able to think clearly, you wouldn’t have needed to,” replies Thursday, gently. 

Morse rests his head against the window, eyes shut tightly. “What happens now?” His voice is barely audible above the engine. 

“Now you change, and have a wash if you want. Then we go home and Mrs Thursday’ll fix you something to eat. And then we face the day.”

Morse turns slowly, red eyes opening to look hollowly at Thursday. “And if I can’t?”

Reaching Morse’s building, Thursday pulls up and stops. He kills the engine and turns to Morse. He thought acceptance, never mind forgiveness, would be much slower in coming. But he never expected the lad to have his heart broken by his own actions. Never expected that in saving Thursday he would lose something equally precious, perhaps more so. 

Thursday can’t help but wonder whether that was the Necromancer’s intention all along. They’ll never know – hopefully. 

“You’ll find a way. And when the sun rises, we’ll be there to see it. Right?”

Morse nods, pulling himself up and wiping his face with his sleeve. “Yes, sir.”

“Right then.” He hands Morse the keys. “You know where to find me.”

He watches Morse disappear into his building, and wonders how long it will take the lad to bounce back from this. Whether he’ll bounce back from it. 

Thursday gives him twenty minutes, then gets out of the Rover. He walks up to the building intending to ring Morse’s bell, but a young man comes out as he approaches, tucking his chin down into his scarf against the icy wind. Thursday catches the door and slips in. 

Upstairs in Morse’s hall he glances at the door down at the end by the window for a moment before knocking on Morse’s: no answer. He tries the doorknob. It’s not locked. 

Morse is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, dressed but still damp from his shower; his towel-dried hair is starting to drip onto his shoulders and leave dark spots on the deep blue of his suit jacket. He looks up at Thursday, face dry but long with loss, eyes hopeless. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, gruffly. “Guess I’ve never been much good at letting go.”

Thursday closes the door and walks over to sit down beside Morse. He props his arms on his knees, slowly letting his head fall back to rest against the wall. “I know.”

“I’m tired of… of _endeavouring_ to hold on to the people I need. And never succeeding.” Morse runs a hand through his hair, fingers slicking easily through the damp locks; he makes a quiet sound of disgust and wipes his hand on his trouser leg. 

“Well, for better or worse you haven’t managed to get rid of me yet. Or the family.” Thursday glances over at his bagman: thin, morose and huddled, he seems terribly brittle. But he’s always come flaming back from the deepest pits of despair, his sense of justice – or perhaps duty – an inextinguishable fire. “Come on home with me. They’ve missed you.”

“You’re still angry with me,” says Morse, smile tinged with sadness. “I don’t want to –”

“Morse,” interrupts Thursday firmly, standing. “It doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you like hell.” 

He reaches down to take Morse’s hand; after an instant Morse accepts. He inhales deeply as Thursday takes his wrist in a strong grip and pulls him up; Thursday knows exactly what he’s feeling. A chorus of pain, regret, anger, pity. But now that they’re out of the shadow of Thursday’s rage and fear, relief and compassion sing out above all else. 

Morse’s smile loses its edge. “Thank you, sir.”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Necromancer paraphrases the unpublished first stanza of Keats' "Ode on Melancholy."
> 
> Well, it's finished. Thank you for reading, and for your support. This has been the longest _anything_ I've ever written, and I'm pleased with that. I've posted some more notes, thoughts and a soundtrack over on my [writing LJ](http://what-we-dream.livejournal.com/89185.html) for those who are interested. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
